


But to the Future

by PenUltimate



Series: Haunting Ourselves [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (descriptions are not explicit or graphic but do mention some details), -Ish, Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky-centric, Canon Typical Violence, Interactive, M/M, Multimedia, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sort of a character study, Stucky Big Bang 2016, Who the Hell is Bucky?, experimental layout, mentions of torture, some strong language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:36:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7870441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenUltimate/pseuds/PenUltimate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes doesn't know who he is, but he's sure as hell gonna find out.</p><p>
  <em>He should never have trusted Steve. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Look at where it got him, sprinting in the opposite direction of police cars, trying to escape cops and agents of the government alike.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank my beta, [Bea](http://medalaleafwhisper.tumblr.com/), who was wonderful in general and so, so helpful. Thank you for your patience and your corrections. This fic would not be what it is without your influence and assistance. 
> 
> I’d also like to thank the Stucky and Captain America fandom in general. It’s such an informative and inspirational fandom, and has been an amazing source of theories views and knowledge and so much of this story has come from those ideas that fans have put out there and shared with the rest of us. 
> 
> This was written for the [Stucky Big Bang 2016](thestuckylibrary.tumblr.com/post/136429151602/authors-and-artists-welcome-to-the-stucky-big). =) 
> 
> I've tried to create a semi-interactive fic, feel free to peruse and click at your leisure. Many of the links lead to resources that I used for research and such. Some are just music. You don’t have to click on any of the links if you don’t want to, though. It’s your [prerogative](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dIOH8Trfas4).

 

He should never have trusted Steve.

Look at where it got him, sprinting in the opposite direction of police cars, trying to escape cops and agents of the government alike.

His legs don't ache from pounding against the concrete, but he's willing to bet that they would if he was a normal human being.

Gripping the handrail running along the edge of the pavement, and leaps from one level of the path to one further below.

His breath is coming hard and heavy as he tries to keep track of where the sirens are coming from. They can't have had enough time to place snipers yet, so he doesn't bother trying to get cover from above, instead choosing to mingle with the crowd.

He pushes people to the side with his flesh arm as he tries to tear his way through them. They make a great deterrent for those in pursuit of him, but that doesn't mean that they aren't also getting in his way.

Just a few more blocks and he could be home free.

The bawling sirens are coming from every direction now.

Damn it, he _really_ should never have trusted Steve's judgment on this.

 _“ Let me introduce you to the others_ , he says,” he mutters to himself, snorting in derision. _“ I trust them_ , he says.”

He looks around, at the bridge he's standing on. People are staring now, avidly fascinated, as if they're rubber-necking, like this is some sort of sick form of entertainment.

The officers are almost within firing distance of him now, and the civilians are moving away from him – away from the danger, out of range.

Not good.

Soon they'll be able to get a clear shot of him, and he's sure that they're orders include the words “kill on sight”.

No way out. He's trapped.

A quick pat of his jacket reminds him that he's still in possession of the package. It reassures him to think that it will be destroyed this way. Gone from the world, no longer a scourge upon the earth.

Like him.

_Death solves all problems. No man, no problem._

He's caused so much harm, would it really be so bad to just let go? There's nothing much left for him in this life anyway.

The sun is setting in the sky and if this is the last sight he ever sees at least it's damn beautiful.

He stares down at the dark water flowing by for a moment, before taking a deep breath, and closing his eyes.

He takes a step closer to the ledge.

Hot, sharp agony blooms in his right shoulder as a shot rings out, and he falls into the murky depths below.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

Blue. The man’s eyes are supposed to be blue.

Blue. Like the colour of the Caribbean sea in summer day.

Blue. Like the Salvadoran flag.

_Blue._

He can almost see the exact shade. Radiant, but distant. Like trying to see sunlight from underwater.

It's strange, because in the images playing across the screen the blue is absent. Like the world before now was drained of colour, even though he can remember it vividly in different shades.

Well. Some things he can remember vividly. Others... not so much.

He doesn’t remember meeting this man. _Steve_. Before the bridge, anyway. Doesn’t remember much of Steve at all. But there’s something… Something niggling at the back of his mind, like a little kid playing hide-and-go-seek, who really just wants to jump out.

At the museum there are reels playing footage of the two of them. Laughing. Little plaques stating his name and explaining bits of his life that he has no corresponding recollection of. It would have been easy to believe that it was all just lies.

But there he is, laughing with the man on the bridge, the one who told him his name.

 

Based on his trip to the museum, it seems as though the world knows more about him than he knows about himself.

Before, he thought that perhaps the man on the bridge had been lying, that it wasn’t true. But surely the rest of the world wasn’t wrong.

He wavers between finding the people who had taken everything from him or figuring out what exactly they took.

In the end, he decides that there’s no point avenging a man he can’t even remember. Better to learn what he has lost first. Then, maybe he’ll sate his thirst for blood.

The mission for the time being is to relearn himself.

He has no idea where to begin.

Although... Maybe he has one idea.

He waves his hand in front of an old man passing by, succeeding in making him pause so that he can ask him a question.

“Do you know where I can find a library?”

 

 

 

A warm-eyed, dark-skinned girl in green glasses is sitting behind the front desk. Bucky decides that asking for help is a good place to begin. He thinks for a moment, quickly flicking through cover stories, before deciding on a simple one.

He meanders over in her direction and stops in front of her, waiting for her to look up from her... computer. He's pretty sure that's called a computer. They taught him a little bit about those. But only the things he’d needed to know. More is slowly coming back to him though, bit by bit.

“Hello, can I help you?” she asks, giving him her full attention as she pauses in her work.

“Yes.”

His voice is gruff from disuse, so he clears his throat.

“I wanted to do some research on my grandfather, but I'm not sure how to go about it,” he explains, leaning against the desk as he speaks.

The girl – woman, he supposes, and he can see _Emily_ on her nametag – hums in thought.

“Well, that would depend, I suppose. When and where was he born?”

“Brooklyn, uh... early twentieth century,” he replies uncertainly.

“Oh, well that makes it slightly easier. What exactly do you want to know about him?”

“Anything, really. What his life would have been like, things like that,” he replies, trying to remain vague.

“You doing a project in college or something?” she asks conversationally.

Is this what college students look like nowadays? Homeless people?

“Sure…” he mumbles shrugging.

Emily nods, considering, as she fiddles with a pen.

“What was his job?”

He pauses.

“...military,” he decides, finally.

“You said early 1900s, right? Was he in World War Two?” the librarian asks, having now progressed to tapping the pen against her purple-stained lips.

Pens make for excellent weapons.

When you don’t have to use them to fight. Just to kill.

Then again, he could just use his bare hands. Pretty efficient.

“Yes.”

He thinks. Is almost sure. The museum had said he was there. That Sergeant Barnes was, anyway.

“Okay. So, there are a lot of books, movies, databases that would help you learn about what life in general would have been like back then. Maybe things about life during the Great Depression, and of course World War Two. You could even look at some movies, or watch some videos on YouTube; they have documentaries on there, too. You could also– Hm, let me see,” she turns back to her computer screen, typing for a minute, her fingers gliding across the keyboard. “Yeah, so you can search through genealogy archives, they might have some documentation pertaining to your grandfather.”

He has the vague urge to break her fingers. This is the longest he can remember going with out an act of extreme violence… Ever.

A bit of assault and battery would probably let off some steam.

Instead, he leans over the desk to peer at what she’s pointing at.

“And you could maybe Google his regiment? In the army? To see what they got up to?” she suggests.

He pauses, taking a moment to mull over her recommendations. _YouTube_ . _Google_. Those are words he doesn't recognise. He'll have to bear them in mind.

He peers at her screen once more. He'd been taught to access files, hack into security networks, get past firewalls and download information, but Google and YouTube are things he has yet to encounter. Nevertheless, he’s sure he'll figure them out.

“Is there somewhere here that I could do that?” he asks, gesturing to indicate the library in general with a hand-wave.

“Oh, yeah, of course. We have computers just down that way,” she informs him, pointing to her right. “Here, you have to sign in, and you can go on for an hour. But you have to register with the library first. Do you have any form of identification?”

A simple enough question really - innocent - but he feels a flare of panic all the same.

“Not on me, no... Is there any place else close by where I could use a computer?” he asks, prevaricating.

“There are a few internet cafés around? Just take a right when you get out the front door and just basically walk around down the right side of this building – of the library. Are you with me so far?” she asks, to which he nods affirmative, so she continues. “At the back, you'll see a park, keep that on your right hand side. Then cross the street and keep walking straight. When you get to the next street turn left, and about a two-minute walk in that direction, and stop and you'll see it across the street. It's to the left of a big orange sign, but I can't remember what the sign says. Anyway, the building is brown.”

He nods, storing away the information for later.

“Other than that, are there any books here I can look at?”

“Yes. I'd recommend the historical section. You can check out some autobiographies too, they might be useful.” She grants him a sunny smile, showing slightly crooked canines.

“I'll be sure to do that. Thank you, you've been very helpful,” he assures her, moving his right hand off the table; wrapping it around the strap of his backpack and keeping the other one stuffed in the pocket of his hoodie.

He tries to make his lips tilt up at the corners in a quirk of gratitude, but he's not entirely sure whether or not it works.

Regardless, he enters the stacks and shelves. He figures he might as well start off by brushing up on general history since he seems to be woefully lacking on that front. Then he can start in on his own.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_Café, café, café._

He needs money, he realises.

But he has nothing except for the clothes covering his skin, so how is he supposed to get it?

_If I were money, where would I be?_

He needs to remain inconspicuous. Staying hidden is his main priority.

This is why his talent for being light-fingered can be extremely handy sometimes.

He looks around calmly, making note of possible targets.

Lady with a handbag hanging off of her baby carriage.

Too noticeable.

…

Man in a navy suit with a briefcase.

Looks athletic. Might give chase.

…

Distracted female adolescent with a backpack.

Perfect.

He slides a small switchblade from his pocket and flicks it open, keeping it hidden in his hand, following behind the girl as if he just so happens to be walking in the same direction.

One thing he’s definitely not low on is weaponry.

Most of his explosives had been in his jacket, which he had shirked when he grabbed the hoodie, but he'd kept some to put in his pockets.

He also has a substantial amount of weaponry stashed in his clothing. The handles of boron carbide blades dig into the bones of his ankles, the reassuring weight of Kevlar sits across his chest where he has an M1911 pistol and a Beretta M9 holstered over his ribs. There are a variety of poisons - including botulinum, strychnine, polonium and ricin - hidden at the nape of his neck, poison darts concealed at his wrist, VX and amatoxin smoke grenades on his belt and a Glock strapped to his right calf. Plus, his prosthetic arm.

He definitely wouldn't make it through any kind of security.

Although, if he ditched the metal weapons, the plastic and tempered graphite ones would do fine.

Particularly the ones coated with snake venom.

On closer examination, there appears to be a wallet-shaped bulge in the smallest, outermost pocket of the teen's bag.

Excellent. That makes things much easier.

He waits until they enter a large crush of people and then steps closer to the teenager, careful to look around casually as he slits the back of the bag open and snatches the blue purse that slips out.

The pale, tired teen doesn’t notice the movement behind her as she tries to push against the crowd in front of her.

Backing away slowly, he ducks his head slightly and puts his hands in the pocket at the front of his hoodie, wallet and knife included.

Then he turns around and walks away.

[ … ](http://howtofightwrite.tumblr.com/)

He ponders his next move on his way to the “internet café”.

He could probably find the man on the bridge. Rogers. Break into his apartment maybe, scope the place out. They’d given him the target’s address as part of the mission briefing.

But… he isn’t sure he wants to talk to him just yet.

Or ever.

So he just keeps walking and resolves to leave the planning until after the reconnaissance.

Good preparation is the key to a successful mission, after all.

And he has a lot to learn.

[ … ](http://enechelon.tumblr.com/post/87634932573/steve-rogers-washington-dc-apartment-address)

When he reaches the internet café, and heads inside, there is a short queue of about three people at the counter, so he joins it, scanning his surroundings as he waits.

When his purveyance of the room is complete and he has memorised the layout, exits, people and possible weapons, he turns forwards once more. There is a woman standing in front of him talking into a… phone.

And he remembers–

Brunette.

Harried.

Sleek, fitted clothes.

Sensible shoes.

Hurried gait.

Restless gaze.

Attached to her phone as if it were glued to her slim fingers.

-

Shattered phone screen.

Severed carotid artery.

Lifeless gaze.

Blood-covered fingers.

Red-stained clothes.   

“Um, sir?”

He jolts out of a daze and refocuses on the man behind the counter. Who was presumably… asking for his order.

Dyed blonde hair, tanned skin, slim, little to no musculature.

No visible scars, relaxed posture.

Most likely not a threat.

But it’s never a good idea to underestimate people.

He adjusts the way the front of his hoodie falls, making sure the outlines of his handguns remain concealed.

“Yes,” he replies, blinking once, twice, and then turning his gaze to the menu boards above and behind the barista.

“Okay… What can I get you?”

“I’d like to use one of the computers.”  

“No problem. How long?”

He thinks about the money in his pocket. He’d emptied the purse and thrown it away in an alleyway, after memorising the name and contact information on the identification in it, then cutting it up with a switchblade and crushing the identification in his left hand.

“Seven hours,” he decides.

“So, until closing time?” the barista ascertains.

“Yes.”

“Then that’ll be forty-five dollars,” the blonde olive-skinned man behind the counter informs him.

He pulls the money out of his pocket with his right hand and begins counting the appropriate amount.

Bucky is having a hard time remembering money's worth, so he's not entirely sure whether that's expensive or not.

In his mind’s eye, he can see other currencies, flickering.

 _Francs, рубли́, Deutsche Marks, yuan, pesos._  

“Do I– Do I know you? Have we met?”

He looks back up at the young man behind the counter, slightly alarmed but trying not to show it. Act calm, allay suspicions.

“You don't look familiar, no,” he answers.

Could slam the cash register drawer on the barista’s hand.

No need. For now.

“Oh, sorry. My bad,” the barista apologises, looking slightly embarrassed.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, handing over the crumpled up cash.

He gets a card with a password and computer number on it for his troubles. He’s assuming that the number corresponds to the ones on the top right hand corner of each computer screen.  

Time to get to work.

First thing’s first: who exactly is the Winter Soldier?

Seems like The Winter Soldier Program is a contentious issue at the moment.

Whoever he used to be probably would’ve been ashamed of whoever he is now.

At all that he’s done.

Each link he clicks on leads to another report of an assassination – _murder? What’s the difference?_ – that he has evidently committed.

And they are gathering evidence.

Thankfully, nobody appears to have figured out that the Winter Soldier and James Buchanan Barnes are the same person. Yet.

He feels like he's wearing someone else's face, the mask of a man long-gone. Dead in a lab back in Austria. Or Russia. Or America.

He isn't real. Bucky Barnes isn't home anymore.

Bucky. Now that he’s thinking about it, it’s a really dumb name. All the terrible things it rhymes with, all the ways he could be – and probably was – teased.

Buck. Had there been deer jokes?

He shakes his head at his former-self for his dubious choice of sobriquet. What was he thinking?  

Is it himself he should be shaking his head at?

He’s… unsure.

He has more questions than answers at this point.

He reads file after file, examines diagram upon diagram.

It’s as if he’s so far removed from it, he could almost believe that it all happened to someone else entirely.

Or, to the people who did it all to him, to some _thing_ else entirely.

That is, if it wasn’t for the flashbacks.

He knows it was him, all him, because he can remember their voices. Talking to him.

No, talking _at_ him. About him. Over him.  

The subject.

The American.

The weapon.

The asset.

**The Winter Soldier.**

Murmurs, whispers, discussions, orders.

He can feel the smooth press of a leather chair against his back, strapped around his arms, his torso, his wrists.

Of course, they’d soon realised that leather wasn’t enough to hold him, he assumes, because he can also remember ripping through it.

The feel of it was replaced by cool metal digging into his skin.

He remembers the deprivation, the isolation. So lonely, so hungry, so cold.

Blacking out again, and again, and again. From pain, from light-headedness, from blunt force head trauma.

Some of it seems real. Some of it seems surreal. Some of it seems unreal.

But he thinks most of it was real.

                                                  He knows.

                                                                  He thinks.

**He knows.**

 

He rolls his eyes. From what he can tell, he’s a hell of a lot older than eighteen. But now that he’s got a minute to think – no longer mindlessly clicking without even needing to press play – about whether or not he wants to watch himself writhe with pain he can barely remember, he feels his resolve waver.

Does he want to see this? He might not be able to forget it this time around.

After thinking for a few moments and worrying at his lip for a while, he rolls his shoulders back and sets up an account.

[ … ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cGkkfzrgk_I)

It’s odd because obviously he’s remembering things from a different angle to the video.

Hearing the voices in the videos is messing with his mind.

Must complete the mission.

Must. Complete. The mission.

The mission.

**The mission.**

In his head, the colours are dripping and surreal. Saturated, like ink bleeding over a comic strip. Blotchy.

Cartoonish and fake. Probably not at all like what had actually happened.

It feels invasive nonetheless.

At least there are no close-ups of his face, and the images are grainy enough that he’s unrecognisable.

He feels compelled to watch it all, to watch every second of footage of him that’s out there, to look at every photo, read every scientific file and training report.

After the first few videos his skin feels hot, flushed and he feels sick to his stomach, after an hour he doesn’t feel much at all. He just feels numb.

Eventually, it all just seems like more of the same, again and again and again.

On the screen and in his mind.

The pinch of the needles as they slide into his skin. The crackle of electricity that made his skull vibrate, agony radiating from every place it touched.

_“As our country's illustrious leader once said: Death solves all problems – no man, no problem. You, my friend, will help us solve our problems.”_

Judging by the books he’d skimmed through at the library, the Russians beat the Germans and the Americans beat the Japanese and now they hate each other.

Which is great. Sounds like nobody has their shit together.

_“Humanity cannot be trusted with its own freedom. They will destroy themselves.”_

Where do you draw the line between law and liberty? Between liberty and justice? Is it right to trade freedom for safety? Is order the ultimate goal?

Is it justifiable to sacrifice the rights of the few for the good of the many?

He can't decide. But then, he probably won't get to decide. He won't get to choose.

He never has.

He is torn between getting revenge and getting more of his memories back.

And he feels–

                         **Angry.**

Anger, he knows. Anger, he can deal with.

How hadn’t anyone found him? Did they even look?

Heat wells up inside him, surging beneath his skin, and suddenly he is _furious_.

Why him? Why did he have to go through all the pain he is only starting to remember?

And if this is just the tip of the iceberg, he’s not sure he wants to have a glimpse beneath the water at the other 90% lurking there.  

_The room smells of alcohol and vomit. The target is in bed, asleep, as expected._

_What is unexpected is the woman lying next to him._

_Black hair, too skinny to be truly healthy. Smeared make-up. Pretty, though._

_Someone didn't do their recon properly, it seems. Now he is going to have to clean up their mess._

_“You are a ghost. Leave no witnesses to your existence.”_

_He shoots the target first – yes, it's a little noisy, but at least he has a silencer on his gun. Besides, the woman is only just beginning to stir in confusion and blink blearily at him when he shoots her too._

_Both clean head shots._

_Clean in the aiming sense, that is._

_He re-holsters his gun and leaves._

_Mission complete._

He realises that he’s crushing the change in his pocket in his metal fist.  

He sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose.

This isn’t the kind of thing he even needs to know. Not really. There’s not much he can do about it at this point anyway.

He’s gone back far enough for the videos to be out of focus and distant, the images grainy and long ago.

Everyone in the ones this far back is probably long gone anyway. Dead and buried. 

Except for him. 

One of the videos earlier was named something strange.

He types in “S.H.I.E.L.D. leak” and clicks on the magnifying glass on the right hand side.

When he selects the first option, he finds…

Everything.

[ … ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zhV4pIsE5X8)

[ … ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tjTrFo-bITU)

[...](https://wikileaks.org/)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He reads on and skims through some of the decrypted files, but he’s grown bored of the horrors of his past for now.

One thing that bothers him are the multiple mentions of a “Notebook” and references to “the Red Book”. It makes him feel uneasy, a sense of dread creeping up into his throat.

 _\--- Желание ---_  

He decides to ignore it for now. He has enough to worry about.  

It seems like everything about him is online, and he feels strangely exposed. The whole world has easy access to videos of him naked, tortured, screaming. Everyone one can see everything that was done to him. The things _they’d_ done to him.

The things _he’d_ done, and exactly who he’d done it to.

Schematics and blueprints of his left arm, notes on all the things they had injected him with, accounts of his missions and more, so much more.

He could learn everything about the Winter Soldier if he wanted to. Almost everything.

But he has seen enough.  

He’d rather learn about something else.

He’d rather learn more about “the Avengers,” whoever they are. Something to do with S.H.I.E.L.D., he knows.

[ … ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wBbSNnGmPfw)

The Avengers are certainly a motley crew. His eyes rove over their faces, vaguely amused by their varied expressions.

Clint Barton / Hawkeye.

Ashy blonde. Muscular arms. Archer.

Excellent sight, but hearing problems. No enhancements. 

Bored. Distracted.

-

Bruce Banner / The Hulk.

Tanned from travel. Tired. Shoulders heavy with unseen weight.

No evident weaknesses, other than lack of control.

Nervous. Guilty. Could be weaknesses in and of themselves.

-

Thor.

Long hair. Semi-permanent grin. A god, apparently. Looks like one, too.

Absent often. Lack of worldly knowledge. Arrogant.

Delighted. Confused.

-

Tony Stark / Iron Man.  

_Wait. Stark?_

That… rings a bell. But, regardless.

Trim beard. Purple under his eyes, practically bruised.

Over-caffeinated. No healing abilities or heightened senses. Extremely intelligent.

Cocky. Smirking.

Possibly the reason Banner is nervous.

Although, he could just be afraid of turning huge and green.

-

Steve Rogers / Captain America.

Broad, straight shoulders. Stubborn set to his jaw.

Weaknesses: ...Bucky Barnes, evidently.

Grim. Dutiful.

-

Natalia Alianovna Romanova.

No – Natalia Romanoff.

No. Natasha Romanoff.

No.

Natasha Romanova.

He sees red hair and a blank facial expression and he is reminded of–

 _Красная комната_ _._

_Between combat training sessions, the girls get ballet lessons. He can see them bend and turn and twirl in the hall as he waits._

_He had always loved dancing._

_Had he?_

_Hadn’t he?_

_Either way, he thinks they are beautiful. But he can see the struggle to maintain a passive facial expression while they twist their bodies into unnatural shapes. They strain and push and they are exhausted._

_“…balloné…and plié…”_

_It’s an excellent cover. Dancing will make their muscles strong, their limbs flexible, their control knife-sharp, their pain tolerance excellent._

_Their bodies are weapons. Just like his._

_“Révérence.”_

_Afterwards, they return to the training room so that they can learn to inflict all of the pain they have ever felt upon others._

 

* * *

 

People seem to think that the Winter Soldier is a ghost story. But it’s Bucky Barnes who haunts him.>

An impression he can't quite grasp. A magic trick. An illusion.

The great reveal is that he doesn't exist anymore.

_The only ghosts that haunt us are the ones we make for ourselves._

Well. That pretty much sums up who the Winter Soldier is, he supposes.

So, who is Steve Rogers?

Not Captain America, he’d seen more than enough of that at the museum, and with the Avengers. No. Who is the man behind the shield?

Most of what he has left of... "Steve" is a bunch of disjointed scenes roiling around in his head, and a whole mess of feelings roving around in his chest.

He’s starting to recall quite a bit about the man on the– about _Steve_ now. Not necessarily memories, but things he’d associate him with, like the feeling of an uneven heartbeat beneath his hand and the smell of paint and graphite.

But he wants to know more. Wants to know real solid facts about him. 

And who the hell is Bucky Barnes?

Luckily, a lot of other people seem to want to know the same things, and they’ve done a lot of the work for him already.

 

 

 

Captain America seems strangely affable, for such a prominent and legendary public figure. He stands up and shakes my hand when I arrive, a perfect gentleman.

“Call me Steve, please.”

He is dressed in tan slacks and is wearing a dark blue sweater over grey button up, despite the fact that it’s ninety degrees outside. We are in the middle of a summer heatwave.

Has no one told him that he can walk around in a T-shirt and shorts if he so wishes? Does the serum give him better heat-tolerance than us mere mortals?

“I wish. No, I guess I’m just used to it,” he replies awkwardly, shoving his hands in his pockets as if to stop himself from fidgeting.

I see him almost go to pull out my chair, but he catches himself and gives me a sheepishly apologetic grin, but I wave away his concern.

As we sit in the café where he requested we meet, people pass by obliviously, and Stark Tower looms overhead.

When I ask him why he chose this place, he smiles – that same old, All-American-boy, heart-stopping grin. I could never call him the Boy-next-Door type, because if he lived next door to me I would have long ago gone into cardiac arrest.

“I like to sketch here sometimes.”

I was unaware that he still made art. Although, I’m sure most of us have seen some of his pieces from before the war – even if just on Google Images.

“Yeah, it’s sort of a habit. I never really stop drawing unless I’m really busy and I have to focus on something else. If I ever have a spare moment, I usually grab a pen and a scrap of paper and just let my mind wander.”

The blonde waitress smiles at him when she takes our order, and he thanks her by name. Is he a frequent customer, then?

“Not that often. But people don’t usually bother me here, so it’s nice. And the view is good, too,” he laughs, gesturing to the towering skyscrapers that surround us.

I suppose that he might be speaking sarcastically, but I would have to agree with him if he was not. There is something nice about this street. All around us, citizens scurry by, but there is a somewhat calm bubble on this patio. I can see why he likes it here.

I have to ask, though: If he doesn’t like people bothering him, why did he agree to this interview?

“PR agent told me to,” he replies, with a slight shrug.

I definitely have to admire his honesty.

We settle into a few moments of ambient people-watching as we wait for our drinks. Rogers is apparently a coffee fan. Nothing fancy or complicated, either; he takes his black.

“When you have work in the morning and a commission to complete at night, you kind of become addicted  to the stuff. I never really liked to smoke, because of my asthma. I always ended up coughing up a lung. So, I would say coffee is my main vice.”

But his metabolism is increased by the serum, so doesn’t that cancel out the effect of the caffeine?

“Oh, yeah, absolutely. I mean, it can still have an effect on me, but I'd have to drink much, much more of it, and a lot faster than most people. But I still like the taste.”

To each their own, I suppose.

I see his fingers twitch; perhaps he is longing to let the figures of those who pass us take shape on a blank white sheet. I wouldn't mind if he did being to draw, but I get the feeling sketching is more private for him than he lets on. Art often is. Other than that, he is still. His eyes flicker around the room briefly, before returning all their attention to me.

Ever watchful, ever polite.

I wonder if he’s picked up any of his other old hobbies since he was found in the ice.  

“Mostly I’ve been trying to pick up new ones, actually. Trying to catch up with everything I’ve missed,” Rogers explains.

Quite a lofty goal.

“Well, maybe just some of the things,” he concedes, wrapping his hands around the mug the friendly waitress has placed one the table in front of him. He thanks the waitress again before she leaves and gifts her with another one of his trademark sunny smiles.

It’s fascinating to talk to a man from a different era, who seems so at ease with his surroundings, and yet so at odds with himself.

Is he busy, I ask. Is there anything he can tell me about what he’s working on, or who he’s working with, at the moment that won’t compromise our nation’s secrecy?

Steve laughs at this.

“It’s not all that serious at the moment,” he assures me. “But there might be something interesting happening in the near future in my… career, I suppose you could call it. And if it does end up coming together, you’ll definitely hear about it. Everyone probably will.”

Now he’s gotten me unbearably curious, but I can tell that he’s going to keep any other information on the matter to himself. Loose lips sink ships, after all.

“I hope the rest of your day goes well,” is what he says in farewell, after he has tipped the waitress generously and opened the door for me as I leave. It is as earnest as everything else he has said so far.

I wish him the same, amazed at how quickly the time has passed, how quickly it has run out.

But I suppose none of us are as out of time as Steve Rogers himself.

 

* * *

 

 

_F o u n d   i n   t h e   i c e ._

_The door closes and it is cold, so cold._

_He can still see through the little glass window, but he can’t move, can’t feel._

_They do that to him sometimes, stop him from feeling things._

_Now, though, he can’t breathe._

_He begins to feel drowsy. Sleepy._

_Everything seems distant and unimportant and-_

He can’t breathe, couldn’t- he can’t-

He closes his eyes and tries to calm himself, hoping that nobody noticed the strange man panicking in the corner. A cursory survey of the room reveals that nobody seems to be paying him any attention.

Good. Okay. Everything is fine.

He is awake and he is away from them. For now.

Everything is fine.

He reads the end of the article again, frowning at the phrasing.

_A man out of time…_

In what way?

[ …](http://www.timesunion.com/news/article/70-years-ago-VE-Day-marks-end-to-WWII-in-Europe-6241346.php)

[ … ](http://www.cjr.org/the_kicker/and_thats_the_way_it_was_febru_6.php)

 

Had the war ended? Really? From what he’s learned so far, it seems like war never ends, just moves around a bit.

_“Humanity cannot be trusted with its own freedom.”_

He rubs at his eyes. He’s been sitting at this computer for quite a while. He checks the time. Still a few hours to go.

So, Captain America had been found in the ice.

How had Steve Rogers gotten stuck in the ice in the first place?

Looking for “Captain America end of war newspaper” clearly isn’t going to give him the results he needs.

Instead he tries “Captain America gets trapped in ice old newspapers”. That works out a little better.

Heading in the right direction, but not as informative as he’d like.

“His body was discovered? Where did it go?” he mutters to himself. He glances around the room yet again, to check that no one is paying him any heed and looks outside surveying the street. Deeming the area safe once more, he returns his gaze to the screen in front of him.  

[ … ](http://learning.blogs.nytimes.com/on-this-day/february-19/?_r=0)

So, Captain America – _Steve_ – had crash-landed a plane right into the ocean.

No wonder #capsicle was still going strong.

What an _idiot_.

What had he been thinking?

Steve Rogers was - is? - apparently a moron.

Bucky rolls his eyes and moves on to researching what had happened before that monumental moment of stupidity.

Steve and Bucky were in the army together, World War II, they were best friends forever, blah blah blah, yada yada yada, they went after HYDRA, same old song and dance, different day, same old story…

They were part of the Howling Commandos.

_“You boys are howling mad.”_

_“It’s not us that howls, it’s our enemies!”_

_“Hey, that’s pretty good.”_

_“Thanks.”_

_“Not you, her! Howling Mad. The Howling Mad Commandos.”_

_“That kind of makes us sound crazy.”_

_“We kind of are.”_

_“Speak for yourself.”_

_“How about ‘The Howling Commandos’?”_

_“Huh. Yeah. I like it.”_

Strange name.

Strange name for a strange group of people.

** **

 

**[...](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Howling_Commandos) **

 

There are fraying photographs of them, scruffy at the edges like the corners of his mind and memories.

These photos though, they only show the dark and the light and they are familiar.

The colours bleed from his memories and are bleached away, until all he can see are the faces looking out from the screen at him, now in varying shades of grey.

His thoughts get tangled in memories like a deer stumbling over the roots of a tree, or through a cobweb tangled in its gnarled branches.

The Bucky from before is smiling whenever he’s shown with Steve or the other guys.

He seems happy.

But it also seems like a bunch of propaganda. A lie. 

Because when everyone looks away, he's not smiling anymore. 

Bucky scans the list of names of the members, their voices echoing in his head as he reads.

Sergeant Timothy Aloysius Cadwallader “Dum Dum” Dugan.  

_“Well, that’s certainly a mouthful.”_

_“As is the rest of me.”_

_“For a small mouth, sure.”_

_“You can be a real heel, Barnes. But I think I like you anyway. Now, buy me a drink and we should get along just fine.”_

_“Someday, you’re going to drink yourself to death, Dugan.”_

Private Gabriel “Gabe” Jones.

_“Three languages? Little bit of an over-achiever? Think you’re better than us or something?”_

_“No, just smarter than you.”_

_“Can’t argue with that, I guess. But straighten up that uniform. Afterall, this is the army, Mr Jones.”_

_"Yeah, no one's ever used that joke before. Real original, Private Buckaroo."_

Private James “Jim” Morita.

_“Oh, another James. Good thing we’ve already got different nicknames, otherwise this could’ve gotten real confusing.”_

_“Yeah, good thing no one'll mistake you for me. Wouldn’t want you to ruin my reputation.”_

_“Big words for a small man.”_

_“Why do you fellas always gotta antagonise each other?”_

Major James Montgomery Falsworth.

_“So, can we call you the Full Monty?”_

_“I think you’ll find that the dubious honour of that name belongs to the Eighth Army.”_

Jacques Dernier.

_“I can blow up anything!”_

_“You’re lit up like a store window.”_

_“I will_ – _I will prove it to you! I_ – _Do you think if I tell that tr_ _ès_ _belle Mademoiselle over there that I am an expert with explosives, she will dira oui to a dance with me?”_

_“Frenchie, if you go over there this plastered, only thing you’ll blow up is your chances with her.”_

He wonders if any of them–

Dugan, Jones and Dernier are still alive. Maybe Buck could visit.

Sure, and ruin whatever memory they have of whoever he used to be.

Or maybe he’s just being a coward.

It doesn't matter right now, anyway. He's in no state to be visiting anybody. Especially people he can barely remember. Besides, who even knows if they can remember him, at their age. 

And, finally, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

_“Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country.”_

The old Bucky looked like a good time.

Except for those small flashes – those little slivers of micro-expressions – when the others would look away and the camera would turn to focus on someone else, but for a split second, a look would flicker across his face.

He looked lost.

Even though he was surrounded by people, he looked so alone.

But then Steve – dressed in his ridiculous get up – would glance over at him and say something, or the camera would swivel back around, and he would plaster a grin onto his face once more.

So, which was real?

Were both feelings true? Had he been both lonely at times and at home with himself at others?  

All along, in the background, a war raged on regardless, tearing the world apart.

_“Humanity cannot be trusted with its own freedom.”_

_“Repetition is key, I think. The more often we tell him, the more likely he will believe.”_

Bucky wishes, for a moment, that all of the things he was remembering really were just nightmares. But then half of his life would be a dream.

He remembers thinking, _I am going to die out here. I might as well already be dead._  

Bucky should already be dead a hundred times over by now.

He purses his lips and keeps scrolling, trying to think of something else to look up.

Agent Peggy Carter, he decides. She’ll do. She’ll do just fine.

[ … ](http://eatingcroutons.tumblr.com/post/138855141640/peggy-carters-1951-1953-interview-part-of-which)

[ … ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OMJOPBR0Osg)

What little he remembers of Peggy Carter is like a child's drawing, full of colours from their imagination, not reality.

He didn’t know her, he doesn’t think. Not really, anyway.

One thing he's certain of is that she was a _firecracker_ , and _one hell of a dame_ , and when he thinks of her he instinctively wants to flinch.

He’s not sure what that means.

Judging by what he’s learned about her, she seems wonderful.

Seems a little like what he used to be like.

Maybe that was the problem.

_“You two act like children around each other,” Carter drawls, her lips tipped up at the corners as if she’s trying not to smile._

_“That’s what it’s like when you’ve got friends. You should try it sometime,” Bucky retorts, knowing even before the words come out that they’re too harsh, not in good humour. But he’s never sure how to act around her. Something about her, and about how she and Steve act around each other, throws him off balance._

_She’s not trying to stop herself from smiling after that._

_In fact, she leaves._

_Steve elbows him in the ribs, frowning at him in reproach and Bucky gets the same nauseous feeling inside that always creeps up on him when Steve is disappointed in him._

_There’s a reason why jealousy is equated with a monster. It’s a sickness. A parasite that thrives off of your every insecurity._

Bucky frowns, puzzled.

But why was he jealous?

_“Yeah, she’s a choice bit of calico.”_

_“Bucky! Don’t talk about her like that.”_

_“Why? You got a crush? ’cause she’s a doll. I see the way you look at her.”_

_“What? No. Don’t be stupid. I just happen to think she’s real nice. ’sides, you shouldn’t talk about_ anyone _like that.”_

 _“What if I talk about_ you _like that?” Bucky asks with a slight leer, which quickly turns into a grin as Steve chokes on his drink._

_“Bucky! You can’t just– What if–?” Steve hisses, gaze darting around the room in panic._

_“Oh, relax. Everyone here’s too blotto to listen to a thing I’m saying, let alone understand a word of it.”_

Bucky sighs and decides to let this particular mystery of the past remain in the dark.

Maybe he’ll remember, with time.  

He had respected Peggy Carter. 

But he hadn’t liked her.

_He had. He’d just wished he didn’t._

_And he doesn’t have the faintest idea as to why._

 

 

He learns more about Rogers' exploits the more he clicks. 

About sieges and rescue missions, and - oh, so Steve had rescued him, had he?

Well, at least the first time he’d been captured by HYDRA he’d gotten out of there.

Pity that Steve hadn’t been around to do it a second time.

[ ... ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z5FZkuu9vII)

_Bucky is lying on a metal table and there is a little man in glasses ranting at him as he adjusts the straps holding him down. He can feel the cold of the metal table he’s lying on as it seeps through his clothes, making him shiver when it hits his skin._

_The little man moves away again._

_Is he a doctor? He looks like a doctor._

_He sees light bouncing off of metal in the corner of his eye. It’s so shiny._

_But Bucky doesn’t want any more injections. The last one had made him feel like throwing up._

_Aren’t injections supposed to make you feel better?_

_Everything seems hazy and the doctor is ranting._

_Are the lights flickering or is his blinking?_

_His eyes are open, but he can’t see straight._

_He knows his name… he is a Sergeant… there are numbers…_

_Where is he?_

_Steve._ Steve _._

_Steve seems so far away._

Are these memories? Are they real? Is he daydreaming? Can you have nightmares while you're awake?

Is he mixing up the memories from the second time they’d imprisoned him with the first time?

Will he ever know for sure either way?

His memories are so difficult to parse, like second-hand stories. Worn and used – and different with every telling.

And most of them seem just out of reach.  

He slumps down in his chair and runs the knuckles of his right hand over his jaw as he thinks.

There's so much he doesn't know. What answers to search for next? 

He’d seen something strange at the Smithsonian.

There had apparently been a “before” and “after” Steve? Bucky thought it was just before and after he became Captain America, but then there was a mention of the “super soldier serum”, and he's seen some pictures and videos of what appears to be a smaller version of Steve, and now Bucky is confused.

“The Evolution of Captain America” seems promising, so he clicks on that article and there are plenty of links listed.

And what fun things it has in store for him.

_“So, you’re Captain America now, huh?”_

_“Yeah. It’s pretty weird.”_

_“You’re telling me.”_

_They linger in silence for a moment, as they often do._

_“What’s it like?”_

_“Not as fun as you’d think.”_

_“Oh, really,” Bucky retorts, his scepticism evident in his voice._

_“Yeah, the way people treat me now, it’s– I dunno. It’s hard to explain.”_

_“Try,” Bucky prompts._

_“A story in six words: Captain America, seen but not heard.”_

_Bucky bites his lip for a moment, studying his friend, and then snorts._

_“Who do you think you are, Shakespeare?”_

_“No, I’m Captain America, you jerk.”_

_“Oh, I see the way it is. One shot of jumbo juice and all of a sudden, you think you’re all that.”_

_“I do not–!”_

_“Do so! You’ve started to put on airs!”_

_“I have not!”_

_“I bet you even think you’ve got better aim than me now, too!”_

_“Just better than I was before! I had bad eyesight!”_

_“…Bottle cap toss contest?”_

_“Thought you’d never ask.”_

 

[… ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7i574Em3IrI)

[ … ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JpUkQcCRUmw)

YouTube is pretty great. If he ever talks to Steve again, he’s definitely going to tease him about his little stint in acting. And dancing. Star Spangled Man With a Plan, indeed.

He’s so glad this hilarity is immortalised.

Bucky vaguely remembers thinking, _I love him, but that boy could not sing to save his life and he can’t dance any better than a horse. A horse with asthma and four left feet. Who in their right mind would let him on a stage?_

Which – okay, loved? Like a friend?

All kinds of love seem foreign to Bucky.

But maybe they weren’t foreign to Bucky after all. Maybe they were foreign to the Winter Soldier.

He feels like he’s remembering just a fraction of what must have been a lifetime of loving Steve.

He remembers loving him in more than just one way – in every way. In any way that he could.

Not so much the solid memories of moments, but the feelings... those he can remember. 

They're not the kind of feelings he can deal with right now. 

Anger, yes. Love... no. 

Either way, he supposes he’d thought wrong. Steve had proved him wrong. He actually wasn’t half bad at the little routine.

That wouldn’t protect him from the teasing, though. Obviously.  

 

 

 

[… ](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/234961305534536133/)

Wow. Shaking hands, shaking babies.

No, that isn’t quite right, is it?

Kissing babies, saving babies. Punching Hitler himself in the face. Captain America had it all covered.

Propaganda is just another form of persuasion, after all. Not inherently evil in and of itself.

Just depends on what you were trying to persuade people of, Bucky supposes.

It was quite a show they’d had running.

There are many, many pictures of Steve looking absolutely ridiculous.

And there are also pictures and videos of Steve looking… well…

[… ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XxmHNTyL6B4)

[ … ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qXPOl6EjbWg)

As Bucky watches Steve’s pale, skinny, bare chest – and then Steve’s shiny, muscular chest – heave up and down, he begins to feel concerned, but that's soon followed by stirrings of… Something else.

_“What, you got a sweetheart back home or something?”_

_“Or something.”_

Which is confusing, to say the least, so Bucky decides to distract himself by listening to music.

Glenn Miller apparently went MIA during the war. That brings a strange sense of sadness to Bucky’s chest, creeping in and covering the feeling of bittersweet nostalgia he gets as he listens to Miller’s band play music.

At least music is preserved in this way. That means that all the songs he can hear playing in his head are probably here, on the internet, and if he can just find them, he can listen to them to his heart’s content. That’s something, he supposes.

But there are so many tunes constantly on a loop in his mind. Which one to choose next…

_Tain’t no sin to dance ‘round in your bones._

That’s that decision made for him. That one line is one of the ones that’s always bugging him real bad.

Time to listen to it out loud for once.

Or just for the first time in a long time.

[ … ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ScjucUV8v0)

Music is nice, Bucky decides.

In fact, there's something playing on the radio at the moment that's very upbeat.

It reminds him of something.

_Of three USO girls in uniforms performing at shows for soldiers._

_But even before that, a swirling world of spinning skirts and cherry-red lips stretched over broad smiles._

_Hands in his as they swung around a hall, the thrill of physical exertion and laughter as they turned around and around and around, until the whole room seemed to be moving around them._

_Dancing toe to toe, cheek to cheek…_

[ **…** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XtPIuhF5MvU)

Someone clicks a pen nearby and he remembers crawling through the dirt, looking through a scope, but he’s not sure what decade that was even in.

Suddenly – for a fraction of a moment – he’s back there, _surrounded by sound, stomach resting against the packed earth. Spent bullet casings lay around him._

_He loads another stripper clip._

_Click._

_The varnished wood of the stock is pressed against his cheek, the butt plate against his chest._

_Body behind the scope to better absorb the recoil. He’s ready._

_When you pull the trigger, squeeze it straight back with the ball of your finger and hold it. Count your bullets as they go. Five shots._

_Steady._

_Distance, wind, velocity, elevation, temperature, humidity. The Coriolis Effect._

_So many things to think about and he needs to focus._

_Focus._

_There is an art to putting a bullet in someone._

_Aim._

_Remember to shoot at the bottom of your exhale. Relax._

_Breathe in, finger on the trigger. Breathe out, press down._

_Fire._

( _What do you do in the infantry?)_

_(You march)_

_(You march.)_

_(You march.)_

[ **_…_ ** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dssjnJaL2SQ)

 

_In England, it was always raining. There were even different kinds of rain. There were a ton of words to describe them all, too. A shower, warm, cold, freezing, light, pelting, hail, dreich, luttering, siling, plothering, tippling down, raining stair-rods, raining cats and dogs, fucking lashing, pouring, sheeting, pissing down from high heaven, buckets from the sky._

_Or, as Dernier would later yell, (loudly, right next to Bucky’s ear), “_ _Il pleut comme vache qui pisse!”_

 

_He can almost_

_feel_

_the rainwater on his skin_

_taste it_

_on his lips._

 

[ ... ](http://www.history.com/topics/world-war-ii/world-war-ii-history/pictures/pearl-harbor/battleships-burning-at-pearl-harbor-2)

If Bucky has learned one thing about history, it’s that it was bloody.

War.

Seems like he’s been used in one dumb war after another.

 _World War II_. Bucky thought he was with the “good guys” during that war, the Allies.

But then there was Nagasaki and Hiroshima.

 _The Cold War_ ; they’d exchanged one enemy for another. For each other. 

And another, and another, and another.

 _Vietnam_. Napalm.

Maybe Lennon had the right idea.

But then look at what had happened to him.

 _The Congo_. Looks like he's not the only US citizen who's assassinated politicians. Or tried to. 

Definitely not the only one.

 _Iraq_. _Afghanistan_.

 _Guantanamo Bay_.

Humans: always trying to kill each other.

And so the world turns.

The ends justifies the means. Apparently.

_“Humanity cannot be trusted with its own freedom. You understand that, don’t you?”_

Who decides which is the right and which is the wrong? Is it the right of the mighty or the right of the many?

Is anybody right at all? 

 

 

Bucky moves his hand off of the keyboard and digs his fingernails into the flesh of his palm, focusing on the pain to ground himself in reality.

_\--- ржaвый ---_

He absentmindedly notes that his nails have grown a little too long. He’ll have to get his hands on a pair of scissors.

Once he’s breathing easier and thinking clearer, he decides to hell with it and just “ _Googles_ ” his own name.

He can almost feel the keys of a typewriter beneath his fingers – but that particular memory doesn't seem real. He doesn't think he's ever used a typewriter. Perhaps simply heavier computer keys.

The first thing that comes up is a _website_ called “Wikipedia”.

He doesn’t like the fact that anyone can apparently “edit” this information, but trawling through governmental records and archives is frustrating. It feels like an exercise in futility half the time, but he isn’t sure whether or not to trust other websites. Then again, it isn’t like the government is always trustworthy, either.

He can’t order copies of records of Bucky Barnes’ life, because that would require a mailing address, and if he gave one they could probably track him to it.

So, he resigns himself to reading this “Wikipedia”, regardless of how suspect the information is. He’ll just take it all with a grain of salt.

 

**James Barnes**                                                                                                                                          

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopaedia  

_For other people with similar names, see_[ _James Barnes (disambiguation)_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jim_Barnes_\(disambiguation\)) _or_[ _Jim Barnes (disambiguation)_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Barnes_\(disambiguation\)) _._

 

 **Sergeant James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes** (March 10, 1919 – March 15, 1945), was a soldier of the 107th Infantry Regiment[1] and the childhood friend of [Steve Rogers](http://marvelcinematicuniverse.wikia.com/wiki/Steve_Rogers). During[ World War II](http://marvelcinematicuniverse.wikia.com/wiki/World_War_II), he became a member of the [Howling Commandos](http://marvelcinematicuniverse.wikia.com/wiki/Howling_Commandos). They attacked many HYDRA[2] bases together. During a battle on a [HYDRA train](http://marvelcinematicuniverse.wikia.com/wiki/Schnellzug_EB912), Bucky was attacked and fell off to his death.

**Contents** [ hide ] 

1 Early life

2 Friendship with Steve Rogers

3 Military Service

        3.1 World War II

        3.2 Training

        3.3 Capture and Rescue

        3.4 Howling Commandos

        3.5 Disappearance

4 Propaganda

5 Legacy

6 Posthumous events

7 Awards and decorations

8 Portrayal in film, television and other media

9 See also

10 References

        10.1 Notes

        10.2 Primary Sources

        10.3 Secondary Sources

11 External links

        11.1 Bibliographies and online collections

        11.2 Programs about the Howling Commandos

        11.3 Recordings

        11.4 Museums, archives and libraries

**Personal Life**                      

Born                                 March 10, 1919

Brooklyn, New York,

United States

Died                   March 2, 1945 (aged 25)

Fell from Alpine railroad car

 **Military service**                      

Allegiance           United States of America

Service/Branch                    United States Army

                                                                                                   Years of Service                               1942-1945

        Service Number                                 12557038

         Rank                                    Sergeant

Commands held              107th Infantry Division

                Wars                               World War II

                                                                                                                          

Early Life [ edit  ]                                                                                                                                         

Barnes was born in Brooklyn, New York, the son of Winifred Claire (née Pierson) and George Matthew Barnes. He was the oldest child of four. He attended George Washington High School. Barnes was an excellent athlete who also excelled in the classroom.[3] In the fall of 1934, Barnes’ father died in a construction accident. Barnes dropped out of high school at the age of fifteen in order to work to help his widowed mother and to support his younger siblings. Barnes’ mother remarried when he was eighteen, to Jack Brubaker. 

Friendship with Steve Rogers [ edit  ]                                                                                                                

There are no firsthand accounts of how Barnes and Rogers met. It is widely it is common knowledge that they first encountered one other as children. Exactly how, is a matter of much debate and many scholars have a broad range of theories varying widely in evidential support. However, the Barnes family have revealed that Rogers and Barnes knew each other from approximately the age of eleven onwards, and after meeting were rarely seen apart. Their close friendship has been the subject of intense discussion and controversy and is commonly referenced in many media platforms as an archetypal friendship from which many stories take inspiration.

Military Service [ edit  ]                                                                                                                                      

From 1942 until his death in 1945, Barnes served with the United States Army.

**World War II**

Rogers has mentioned that Barnes was meeting him after an art class when they heard of the Pearl Harbour incident. Soon afterwards, they learned that America had joined the war, on the side of the Allies. The sections of Barnes’ military record that have been released to the public, show that he joined a number of weeks after the event. Around the same time, Rogers attempted to enter the Army for the first time.

**Training**

When Barnes entered the army in January of 1942, he was originally trained at [ Miami Beach](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Miami_Beach_Training_Center) to be a fighter pilot for the Army-Air Force. Upon completing that training it was decided that he should be a paratrooper and he was then sent to [ Fort Benning](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fort_Benning).

While he was completing paratrooper training, it was decided that the army needed more combat engineers, and as Barnes’ civilian job was as an auto-shop mechanic, he was also sent to Iowa State College to do an intensive course in [engineering](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Engineering).

However, it was subsequently decided that more members of the infantry were needed, and so Barnes was put through infantry training. Before he was deployed to the European theatre, Sergeant Barnes’s military records show that he was, lastly, chosen for training as a sniper, due to the exceptional level of skill he displayed in marksmanship. He moved quickly up the ranks to [ Sergeant](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sergeant) (humorously, also known as a “buck sergeant”[4]).[5]

**The 107th**

Due to Barnes’ unusually varied and vigorous training, he was selected to become a member of the 107th Regiment, a group of specialised soldiers. They were only sent on selective missions upon deployment which required a highly qualified unit. They were first shipped out, to the Italian front, in 1943.  

 **Capture** **and Rescue**

As a highly-trained unit, the 107th was selected for a task that would require them to infiltrate behind enemy lines. During a mission in Austria, Barnes’ unit was captured and they were kept as [prisoners of war](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prisoner_of_war) by the Nazi faction known as HYDRA. In his time as a POW, Barnes was experimented upon by HYDRA scientists. It is largely unknown what this entailed, although some reports from his fellow captive soldiers have suggested that “no one else ever came back from it,” and that after the fact, Barnes once mentioned that he thought that they might have “injected him with something”. His released medical files show that he exhibited no signs of changed overall health from before or after the incident. His imprisonment lasted just over two weeks.

When Rogers learned of what had occurred to the men of the 107th, he travelled to Austria to stage a one-man rescue mission, with help from Agent Peggy Carter and the late Howard Stark. It is during this time that Rogers first met the rest of the members of the Howling Commandos.

**Howling Commandos**

****After he was rescued, Barnes became a member of a task force known as the Howling Commandos. This was a unit that collaborated with the[British Commandos](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/British_Commandos) on various missions, a force that carried out raids on German-occupied Europe. Their unit was led by Captain America. Among the other members, were: Dum Dum Dugan, Gabe Jones, Jim Morita, James Montgomery Falsworth and Jacques Dernier. Each Commando was one of the best available in their chosen fields. They were involved in such operations as the Battle of Volgograd.

Many of the Commandos have spoken of their time spent in the group and in the company of Sergeant Barnes. By all accounts, he was a skilled marksman, an excellent soldier and a good friend.

 **Disappearance**  

Sergeant Barnes fell from a fast-moving train while on a mission in the Alps and died in the line of duty. The records that have been released of the mission by the military, show that the mission involved tracking down and capturing a HYDRA scientist known as Doctor Arnim Zola. Barnes is considered to be the only Howling Commando to have died in action, particularly since it was revealed that Captain Steve Rogers is, in fact, [still alive](https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQOkKqRc7jl9TIlhh9K7a6tJNJojq6Tp8Jy3zDLuKSCt8l6HHqR1w).

Propaganda [ edit ]                                                                                                                                          

 While a member of the Howling Commandos, many recordings were taken of Barnes, Captain Rogers and the rest of the Commandos. These were shown both to citizens back in the United States, and soldiers in Europe's and the Pacific. This footage is often seen as propaganda. It has often been compared to the work of Leni Riefenstahl, and has been both criticized and revered by scholars and the public.

The American government also commissioned comic book artist Martin Goodman to create comic depictions of Captain America, featuring Sergeant Barnes as his [ sidekick](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sidekick_\(disambiguation\)) and also involving the other Howling Commandos. The story arcs of these comics often included extremely improbable feats, such as the defeat of Hitler himself.

Legacy [ edit  ]                                                                                                                                                               

Sergeant Barnes is also known for recommending that the U.S. military change their sniper training and was reputed to have strongly disliked the methods they used at the time. Partly due to his influence, American methods for training snipers were revolutionised after WWII, and they began to broaden their scope to include teaching proficiency in [camouflage](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Camouflage) and concealment, stalking, [observation](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Observing) and map reading, rather than simply being able to hit targets at long distances. Barnes was reported to have derided the army’s recommendation to lie down and wait when they were being shot at by enemies, saying that they were “like sitting ducks”. He is said to have admired many facets of the sniping abilities demonstrated by both Russian and German forces. [6]  

Barnes’ family members have always remained predominantly silent on matters concerning his private life, and have refused to give many interviews or to disclose information about him. Thus, he has remained a fairly mysterious individual, whom about little of substance is actually known. He is remembered as an important historical figure in his own right, but is most often primarily portrayed as being the best friend, confidante and constant companion of Captain Steve Rogers.

Posthumous events [ edit  ]                                                                                                                                       

After his death, Barnes’ name was engraved on a bench in Brooklyn Bridge Park in his memory. His Memorial Service was held by his family on May the 9th, 1945 in New York. It was a military funeral in honor of his service. His grave is in Cypress Hills National Cemetery, although there was no body to bury as it was never found. His personal effects were given to his family after his death, who donated his uniforms to the Smithsonian Museum.

His name, along with the names of the other Commandos who have perished since WWII, has been added to the back of the [ Captain America statue](http://io9.gizmodo.com/check-out-brooklyns-big-ass-captain-america-statue-1783969889) that resides in Sunset Park, Brooklyn.

Awards and decorations [ edit  ]                                                                                                                            

During his years of service, Barnes received the Medal of Honor. Barnes was also posthumously awarded the Purple Heart.

Iowa State University - which he briefly attended - also awarded him an honorary Master's degree in Engineering, on the 50th anniversary of his death.

Portrayal in film, television and other media [ edit  ]                                                                                                 

**Comics**

Barnes appeared in many comics with Captain Steve Rogers and the other members of the Howling Commandos. The comic series, known as “Captain America”, was popular and ran for 27 issues, before being discontinued in 1945.[7] It has since been renewed, but no longer features Barnes’ character.

**Literature**

Numerous biographies have been written centering around Barnes, none of them authorised by his family. He has also been mentioned in many works of a historical nature, and in many novels, both fiction and nonfiction. He is frequently referenced in a variety of media, and is a prominent part of the modern pop-culture consciousness, particularly since Captain America’s revival.

**Film and Television**

Barnes has been portrayed in film and television on multiple occasions. These portrayals include: the Legend of Captain America (1949), One Shot, One Kill (1957), The Amazing Tale of Captain America (1964),  Stars, Stripes and Semi-Automatics (1972), Howling Home (1978), Shoot First, Die Last (1981), America’s Golden Boy (1983-88), Shoot to Kill (1990), In My Sights (1996), Stay Low (2005), Captain America: The Shield Against The Axis (2009).

The popular television show “[ Peggy Carter ](http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x1viter_marvel-one-shot-agent-carter-2013_shortfilms?GK_FACEBOOK_OG_HTML5=1)” has also mentioned Barnes briefly in the past.

See also [ edit  ]                                                                                                                                                         

  * Captain America
  * Cultural depictions of Bucky Barnes
  * The Howling Commandos
  * [Declared death _in absentia_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Declared_death_in_absentia)
  * [List of people who have mysteriously disappeared](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_people_who_have_mysteriously_disappeared)



References 

[ 1 ](http://marvelcinematicuniverse.wikia.com/wiki/107th_Infantry_Regiment)

[ 2 ](http://marvelcinematicuniverse.wikia.com/wiki/HYDRA)

[ 3 ](https://historicallyaccuratesteve.tumblr.com/post/93812857207/what-is-the-issue-with-bucky-barness-display-in)

[ 4 ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sergeant#United_States)

[ 5 ](https://www.reddit.com/r/AskHistorians/comments/25tr9r/during_wwii_were_there_any_allied_units_that/)

[ 6 ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sniper#World_War_II)

[ 7 ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Captain_America_titles)

External links                                                                                                                                                                                        

  * FBI Files on Bucky Barnes
  * The Real Bucky Barnes (critical and a rebuttal)
  * Archival material relating to Bucky Barnes



**Recordings**

  * Smithsonian Archival WWII Footage



**Museums, archives and libraries**

  * Portraits of Bucky Barnes, by Steve Rogers, at the National Portrait Gallery, New York
  * The Captain America Exhibition At the Smithsonian (many exhibits feature Barnes)
  * The Captain America Centre website
  * Locations of correspondence and papers of Barnes at the United States National Archives



 

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* * *

 

 

Bucky frowns, confused. That number seems wrong, but almost... familiar.

_12557038._

No. That's not right.

“Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight...” he murmurs, squinting in confusion. It rolls off his tongue like a nursery rhyme. Like the alphabet. Like something he memorised a long time ago.

Some of the information he’s finding conflicts with his memories and is just confusing him more.

_\--- Семнадцать ---_

Bucky would give anything right now to remember every second of his life before the war – before any of the wars, before the brutality and all the death.

To know what it was like to be an older brother, a son, a friend. To be something other than a killer.

The Bucky that used to be seems like a pretty stand-up guy.

But at the same time… it seems like he's mostly remembered for the killing. Certainly his military career is the main thing that people seem to care about.

That, and his epic friendship with Captain Idiot.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The crisp night air smells like the closest thing to freedom he's ever felt.

Alone here, on a street in the middle of the city, he feels alone. Faded. Faceless. Uncaged.

But freedom is just an illusion; and it's not one that Bucky has ever harboured. He's not going to start believing in it now.

Bucky strolls through abandoned streets for a few hours and sticks to the more rundown parts of town, looking for decrepit houses in desolate neighbourhoods, avoiding security cameras and sirens.

He just needs a place to crash for the night, and then needs to keep moving.

Can’t get too comfortable, can’t stay in the same place twice. No going back to the place he stayed last night.

There is a reason why thieves thrive in the dark. Using the cover of night, he breaks into an empty house. Mail is piling up on the mat. Boarded windows. No car in the driveway.

Once inside, he looks around. Dusty. Cobwebs.

He flicks a light switch. No electricity.

Seems pretty abandoned.

Perfect.

He could always kill someone random instead and camp out in their humble abode. There would probably be better amenities available there. Like, maybe some hot water and food.

And what difference would a little more blood make? He’s already wading knee-deep in it.

This way is probably safer, though.

Besides, it’s better than the warehouse he stayed in last night. Or the homeless shelter from the night before last.

It’s taking some adjustment for Bucky to wrap his head around the fact that he can't leave bodies behind anymore. It's too conspicuous. It’d be like a breadcrumb trail, leading all the evil little children to his house to steal his candy.

Isn’t that how that fairy tale goes?

He looks through the cupboards, but all he finds is some candles, a lighter, and a bottle of vodka.

Teenagers, probably.

Bucky stares at the bottle of vodka longingly.

But, no. He can’t be compromised any more than he already is. It isn’t safe to be drunk. Not right now.

_Bucky coughs, feeling the burn all the way through his lungs._

_Whether the alcohol is bootleg or homemade, he suspects it’d be strong enough to use as horse liniment._

_“That’s real coffin varnish, alright. ”_

_“Want some, Steve?”_

_“No thank you, Buck. You know I can’t handle my drink.”_

_“Well don’t worry, you’re not missing out on much.”_

He sighs and makes his way upstairs.

Bucky places his findings in the corner of one of the upstairs rooms and breaks down some of the empty cardboard boxes that are lying around, placing them on the floor to lie on.

He doesn’t have any blankets, but if he can make it through a Russian winter, he can make do with this.

Maybe he’ll buy or steal a blanket or a coat tomorrow.

A coat would probably be better.

He lays down, rolls over onto his side and closes his eyes, willing his mind to become blank.

He sleeps.

He dreams.

_First, he’s on a battlefield, but then the world tilts sideways and the earth gives way beneath him, and he is falling._

_He’s falling and he can feel the wind rush through his hair and whip past his face._

_He’s falling and there’s nothing to grab, nothing to hold onto, no way to stop. Helpless._

_He’s falling and his arm strikes the edge of the cliff as he goes down. Agony._

_He’s fallen and all he can feel is pain, pain, pain._

_Everything is_ **_black_ ** _._

Bucky opens his eyes and the world is still dark, but it’s no longer cold.

He is choking on air and clawing at the cement floor.

The skin at the back of his knees and the crook of his elbow is prickly and itchy with sweat. Breathing is a jittery exercise, a reflex that’s malfunctioning, that he can’t control, can’t fix.

A cursory glance at his shiny, new – although, not quite that new, he supposes – arm reassures him in a strange way. At least he’s not in any more pain than usual.

Everyone is chained to something. His past will probably drag him down into its depths until he drowns.

Strange that he'd thought he'd never remember any of it. As if the world would let him forget.

And now, _now_ he remembers Steve.

Or, at least, he remembers seeing his face before.

It was the last thing he ever saw, in his old life.

A glance outside reveals that a new day is dawning. He’s had a few hours of sleep, and now will be the perfect time to leave while evading detection.

_\--- Рассвет ---_

He groans in annoyance at yet another one of the words that constantly whispers its way through his mind.

The voices in his head are aggravatingly repetitive and implacable.

Sitting up, he stretches a bit, rolling his neck from side to side and trying to work out the stiffness that lingers in his limbs from sleeping on the floor.

With that taken care of, Bucky gathers his things – along with his wits – and tries to decide what to do today.

He’s not used to making decisions as open-ended as that. Picking which gun to use, sure. Picking what to do for a whole _day_?

It’s hard.

He’s been doing it for weeks now, and it hasn’t gotten any easier.

He feels so directionless. Lost at sea with no compass and no map.

Trying to focus on finding more information can only distract him so much. After a while, he still begins to wonder what he’s going to do next.

He has no idea where he’s going.

So, he decides to go for a walk. He’ll decide on a destination along the way.

It feels like there’s rotten milk curdling in his gut at the thought of being so unprepared. His instincts are screaming at him that it’s a bad idea, but Bucky decides to ignore them.

Rebellion tastes sweet and heady.

As he leaves the house, the thought strikes him that he needs something to keep all this stuff in. His pockets are getting pretty full.

Bucky’s not used to having stuff.

While he prowls the pavement, trying to process all of the information he discovered yesterday, he realises that the way he’s walking is… disturbing the early morning joggers who begin to pass him by as he moves towards a slightly nicer end of town.

He sighs. Sometimes he forgets.

After pausing for a moment, he tries to modify his movements so that he appears less menacing. He walks slower, less purposefully, makes his pace more meandering. Looks about instead of glaring straight ahead.

And keeps his left hand in his pocket, as per usual.

Or, at least, usual as of late.

He knows he looks rough – he's supposed to, he supposes – but he thinks he can remember friendly smiles, winks, grins, and he's not– he doesn't–

How had that happened?

The aim of his appearance of his appearance before was to seem threatening. Intimidation starts with the man in the mirror and all that jazz.

That doesn’t sound quite right.

Regardless, he should look for some different apparel, now that the aim of the game has changed.

As he walks toward a slightly busier part of town, he tries to process all of the things he’s learned about himself, all of the memories that are slowly but surely flowing into his fractured mind.

He feels like somewhat of a blank slate that is slowly filling up with markings and chalk lines.

Outlines of the horrors of his past, mostly. But there are some… nicer memories tangled up in all the mess. Gentle hands and the smell of the sea. Which sea it is, he’s not sure. It could be more than one.

It could be just his imagination.

He’d chosen the neighbourhood well last night. There were quite a few derelict buildings around with peeling paint and rust aplenty.

By the time he gets to the shopping district, he begins to notice that his right hand is quaking slightly when he brings it up to adjust his baseball cap. If he thinks about it, he hasn’t eaten in… He can’t actually remember.

Not a good sign.

He needs to look after his body better, and he chides himself for forgetting that it’s his most effective weapon.

It's easy – so easy – to knock into people and slip away with their money. Simple to pretend that he's stumbled against someone, to get shoved to the side so that he has to steady himself against a stall, to palm a green apple and to walk away with food in his hand.

He would pay for it if he could, but if he wastes his cash, he’ll have to get more money from somewhere else. He’s living on borrowed funds either way.

There’s a low-grade, constant ache in his gut that could be hunger. He doesn’t really want to do anything about it and it’s not really bothering him, but he knows that if he doesn’t eat something at some point, he won’t be able to keep going. He’ll feel dizzy and unsteady, like before.

But once he bites into the fruit, he’s ravenous. He wolfs down the rest of the apple, but the need to eat lingers. It’s almost worse; now that he’s fed the cavern a little, it wants more. But this should sustain him for a little while longer, so he decides to ignore it for now.

Shouldn’t be too difficult, he’s familiar with hunger.

The bitter tang of the stolen fruit reminds him of something sour, but sweet.

Candy. Hard candy.

His eyes skim over the signs of numerous shops as he passes them by.

There’s some sort of electronics store with… televisions pressed up against the windows. They’re all playing different things, but one screen in particular catches his eye. The news is on and there’s footage of buildings falling apart and some sort of island floating in the air? A city maybe, although why it’s suspended in the air, Bucky has no idea. Then the footage cuts to an interview with someone called General Ross “threats to America” and Bucky loses interest.

[ ... ](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCtJkDqZzoOFYbqwOIFn2Lng)

He goes into a bookshop he passes by, and picks out some stationary, a backpack, a biography that is, evidently, about him and – after pausing for a moment – a comic book.

A pale man with lanky hair and bones so prominent they're begging to break free from his skin walks by the out of the store with a small, smiling child who's holding a lollipop that is clearly too big for him to fit in his mouth – although that certainly isn't stopping him from trying.

The kid's clean clothes are a sharp contrast to the rumpled mess his accompanying adult is wearing. The man is watching the little boy with careful eyes, ever mindful of the traffic and throngs of people passing by as he listens attentively to the little boy describe his day at school.

They walk out of earshot and Bucky returns to examining the interior of the bookshop. 

Possible improvised weapons:

Hot drinks of passers-by.

Counter-top.

Cables. Not effective enough. Might be useful for tripping.

Stationary. Lots of stationary.

Staplers.

Display racks - no, too unwieldy.

Lego.

Numerous blunt objects - screens, books, bags.

After a cursory catalogue of the useful items in the room, his gaze returns to the woman behind the counter. She is middle-aged, Asian and has more curves than straight lines, wearing plum lipstick and a thoughtful frown.

The man behind Bucky has limbs that keep seizing and jerking about no matter how tightly he grips onto the … in his hands and the sudden movements keep making Bucky's instincts twitch. Despite what his instincts are screaming, Bucky tries to ignore him and focus and the lady at the counter.

“Cash or card?” she asks him.

“Cash.”

_Cash._

_“You guys never have meat.”_

_“Yeah, Buck, ‘cause we’re poor.”_

_“Then let me give you some cash,” he jokes, leaning over to kiss Steve’s cheek._

_Steve is pushing him away, laughing now._

_He loves Steve’s laugh._

_“I’ll take a check.”_

The cashier is strangely nice to him. Friendly and chatty as she rings up his purchases - despite her dour expression.

Most of the kindness he remembers now was a lie. Pierce was kind to him.

But all they were trying to do was control him. Trying to convince him that he was doing the right thing so that he would want to work hard, want to get better, train.

_“First we break him, then we remake him.”_

_“You will work hard, you will train, you will help us to help the world.”_

_“When you return, leave nothing behind but bodies and disaster in your wake.”_

And when he fought back, they just kept trying and trying and trying and trying. He was an experiment, so why not just keep experimenting on him?

Bucky shoves his purchases in his backpack after paying for them – except for the comic book, which he flicks through as he exits the shop.

[ … ](http://static4.comicvine.com/uploads/scale_small/11/117763/2677627-captainamericacomics01.jpg)

The damn thing is definitely familiar.

The mere sight of it irritates him, so clearly there’s some history there.

In his mind, he can picture… a woman with a camera – a big one, this must have been a long time ago – and a man with a sketchbook. He and Steve were arguing, something about “artistic licence”.

As he skims through the pages, he realises why he was annoyed.

He was angry about the fact that he was portrayed as a teenage boy in tights, with ridiculous gloves and boots. And a pointlessly small mask.

Which still seems justified to him.

_“Frankly, I look ridiculous.”_

_“At least you’re not walking around dressed in the American flag. I feel like an idiot.”_

_“Yeah, and you look like one too.”_

There’s a postcard stand outside the shop and one of the pictures catches his eye as he passes by.

It’s a beach.

He knows that he fucking hates camels. And sand. He thinks he might have liked sand once upon a time, actually. It's a little muddled. But he's certain that he's always fucking hated knobbly-backed, hoofed, furry bastards. And their attitude.

When he blinks his way out of a reverie, he’s still standing in front of the shop window and he sees his own reflection in the glass window - something he normally tries to avoid.

Bucky ponders whether or not he should buy some new clothes.

For now, Bucky needs to blend in, so the stolen baseball cap and sweater will work just fine, but he’ll need to get some clean things to wear and to find a place that has a shower.

Unshaven is fine, but unless he really decides to go for the homeless look as a disguise, he’s going to get noticed.

Being noticed would definitely not be a good thing.

Also, he dislikes the feeling that he’s unclean. Perhaps soon he will stay in a hostel and utilise the shower.

The world is so noisy now. Even when the inside of his own head is silent, all around him there is constant noise.

He longs briefly for an empty room, rubbing at his forehead with his gloved hand. Massaging the side of his temple seems like a good idea and it does help a bit with the near-constant dull throbbing in his skull.

Tomorrow, he decides. Tomorrow, he’ll buy more non-descript clothing and a pair of scissors. His scruff needs a trim.

For now, he swings his backpack over his shoulders and clips the fastenings closed across his chest, before continuing down the street.

While sliding through the crowd like an innocuous shadow, he mulls over his next destination.

He could go to his old haunts, maybe check out a few of the places he used to live and hang out in New York. Maybe he could haunt them again. But the city is too central, and Steve might go looking for him there.

Besides, something has been gnawing at him, nagging at the back of his mind. Like there’s a monster lurking in the shadows, waiting to jump out.

_\--- Печь---_

This time he doesn’t ignore the strange voice in his head. He tries to examine it instead, poking at it and trying to invoke whatever memory lays in store for him, whether good or bad.

Of course he knows what it’s saying. Furnace. It makes him think of heat, pain. The burning coursing through his veins.

It’s monotone. Stern sounding. It fills him with dread, makes him feel… helpless. He feels like it’s… reading? Reading aloud?

_\--- Книга ---_

A book. There’s a book out there somewhere.

It’s red, he thinks?

Yes, it’s red. The cover is red. Blood red.

And it’s important, he can tell from how it makes him feel. He both does and doesn’t want to know what’s in it.

Something is screaming inside him with the desire to stay away from it.

Which makes him sure that someone could use it against him.

The Red Book is out there somewhere, Bucky knows it. He just has to find it before anyone else gets the chance.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

Bucky is staying in a hotel for once – albeit a shitty one, the life of a fugitive is not a glamorous one – which is why there's a door for people to knock on. But why anyone would be knocking on it, he doesn't know. So, he picks up a blade and makes his way quietly to the entrance, peering through the gap between the door and its frame instead of through the peephole, because that's where he'd point a gun if he were the one standing on the other side of the door.

There's a woman standing in the hall. Dressed casually in exercise gear, pale skin, fiery red hair.

The Black Widow.

Bucky stares for a moment, digesting this new development, before opening the door slowly and cautiously, and then they just stare at each other.

He knows they've met before, remembers teaching her how to spar, remembers most things now.

Sometimes he forgets things all over again, and he still has blank spots, but his past is a lot clearer than it used to be. Which isn't always a good thing, but he prefers it to not remembering at all. By a very small margin.

How strange to see her all grown up. He's glad she's alive.

He's not all that glad to see her at his door, though.

“Aren't you going to let me in?” she asks calmly, tilting her head to the side slightly. He has the urge to flee, to escape, leave and start over somewhere new. But he knows her and he knows it won't do him any good.

“As long as you tell me what you're doing here,” he says, standing aside and waving her in, casting a quick glance around the hall to reassure himself before closing the door behind her.

“I've been keeping an eye out, online and through other means,” she tells him, tone blasé and face as unrevealing as ever.

“For what?” he asks warily.

“You.”

Great. Another person who's chasing after him. Bucky has run into quite a few of them already. At least he doesn't think she's trying to hunt him down to kill him or imprison him, otherwise he'd definitely cut his losses and hole up somewhere new. He has a feeling that is that was what she'd wanted he'd never have seen her coming. But instead she'd come right up to his front door.

“Why?”

“For a friend,” she says. The way she says it is as controlled and even as everything else that comes out of her mouth, but something tells him that that's not all there is to it.

“Is it Steve?” he asks bluntly. She's one of the Avengers after all, it makes sense that they'd be friends. Bucky knows that Steve has a way of making people want to do anything for him, though. It'd gotten Bucky into plenty of trouble before.

“I traced your IP adress,” she informs him blandly, stepping over the question and ignoring it entirely. Which, Bucky supposes, is an answer in and of itself.

“I know you're trying to find something,” she continues and he looks at her sharply, pursing his lips. “I don't know what or why, but I know it's important. I know my friend would want me to help you, and I know he'd want to see you. But you were my friend too, once. So, I won't make you see him, if you don't want to – even though I hope you realise that he will find track you down eventually. Until then, I'm going to help you.” She stares him down, as if daring him to contradict her.

The fingers of his left hand twitch, tensing in of their own volition. He concentrates on relaxing, letting his fingers loosen from a fist they'd curled into.

He doesn't want to hurt her, so he isn't going to. Instead he simply nods in acceptance, resigning himself to her company.

It wouldn't be so bad, to have some help. Goodness knows he wasn't getting anywhere on his own.

 

* * *

 

Finding the target when it's an object is always more difficult than when it's an individual.

Now that Bucky doesn’t even have a backup team, it’s even more difficult. But with Natasha's assistance, things had gone much more smoothly. 

Bucky lays out his gear on the roof, crouching behind the wall that runs along the edge of the rooftop.

With every item accounted for, he begins setting up his equipment and settling in for an extended stay.

Methodical, analytical. As always. That's what makes him good at his job.

Made him good.

Snack in hand, Bucky turns his attention to the building across from where he’s sitting.

Stupid, crappy binoculars. He can't even adjust the focus of the lenses. Black dots dance before his eyes when he swings his head sideways, as his gaze tries to adjust.

It’s taken Bucky and Natasha months to source the location of the Red Notebook. But at long last the trail has led them here, to the home of Colonel Vasily Karpov.

Well, he's here and Natasha is who knows where. He certainly doesn't. She'd helped him find the Book and then disappeared. 

Bucky is first and foremost, a sniper. That’s his area of expertise. He has been trained in many other fields – including hand-to-hand combat – but most of those skills are for “just in case”. The easiest, simplest, most sure-fire way of killing someone, while also managing to get away with it, is to shoot them in the head, from a distance.

People didn't usually come back from that one.

The only reason Bucky was ever ordered to assassinate someone in a different manner was if there was some other motivation for the assassination other than “we need them dead”. Or if there were mitigating factors, such as the need it to look like an accident or the need to frame someone.

Or if they needed him to kill multiple people, because sometimes they'd take cover. People could be more challenging to kill if they realised that there was a sniper around.

Sniping wouldn’t work in this instance. He needed to search and possibly interrogate. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t use his sniping gear to observe from afar.

The dead leaves rolling across the pavement look like dead brown bats with curled up wings.

Not relevant.

Bucky stays on that rooftop – semi-sheltered – all night, the stars winking at him from above.

He ignores their flirtation.

_“Hey, what're you doing out here? Enjoying the view?”_

_“Mm. I miss home, Buck.”_

_“What, you don't like being able to see the stars for once?”_

_“I think the city lights are beautiful. Like a thousand candles, all around you. You don't feel alone.”_

_“You're never alone, buddy. Although, if you keep spouting nonsense like that, I might have to temporarily abandon your ass out here while you get all of that poetic shit out of your system.”_

Bucky spots movement through a window across from him.

Time to move.

 

* * *

 

Bypass the knife, strike to the throat, grab wrist, knock down, knee to ribs.

Slightly twist the wrist, strike the elbow to disarm. Press hand down on throat, place foot on wrist.

Alternatively: Twist arm, break elbow joint.

Bucky decides to go with the second option.

A harsh cry of pain falls from Vasily's mouth as the blade falls from his fingers. 

Target neutralised.

Then all that’s left to do is tie him up.

 

* * *

 

When Karpov sees Bucky’s face as he comes to, he looks resigned.

“I told them. You have always been an ungrateful dog, biting the hands of your masters. Always disobeying orders. I told them you can't create a monster and then expect it to stay tame for you,” Vasily says, a snarl of disgust on his face. “A monster is a monster – in their hands or another's, in the cage or out of it. It will always try to break free.”

Vasily spits on the ground, his saliva mingling with dirt on the floor. “They did not listen.”

“You know what I want,” Bucky intones in return.

“I will give you nothing,” Vasily growls, baring his teeth – an impotent threat. He isn’t going anywhere.

“Your silence will not protect you.”

“Who says I will stay silent?” Vasily smirks.

_\--- Девять ---_

Yes, Bucky remembers Vasily Karpov.

He despises his face. He wants to make it unrecognisable.

“If you use those words, I will make you hurt,” Bucky warns.

Though it makes him feel nauseous, he takes perverse and guilty pleasure in making Vasily scream.

 

 

 

Karpov gave him nothing - Bucky hadn't really expected him to - but there's plenty of material in his house for Bucky to look through, things that hadn’t been in the HYDRA online files.

Some correspondence with someone called “Ross”, for example. From the language used in messages between them, it seemed that Ross is an American. There's mention of a Notebook in their conversations – which took place in an email account, but none of the emails were ever sent, each party simply typed up draft emails for the other to read by logging in. Clever.

He knows just enough about computers to realise that he can’t track the IP address - Natasha taught him how, but it's not working. Which means it’s either the work of someone very skilled with computers… or someone who can hire people who are very skilled with computers. So, someone rich, or someone working for the government? Maybe an intelligence agency? 

Bucky scans the messages, looking for more clues. 

The words and phrases used by “Ross” make him think of military. So, he’s guessing it’s someone working for the American military. Or government. That makes sense.

But the name Ross... it sounds familiar. Where has he heard it before? Not while he was with HYDRA. A year ago, outside a store, looking through the window, watching... the news. Where _General_ Ross had been giving an interview. 

It also makes sense that he'd want the Red Book. Bucky knows exactly what it could be used for, the reason they probably took it, and it fills him with dread. 

He needs to find them before they find him. 

 

[ … ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fLZy5m_WHg0)

Bucky remembers this. Has started remembering all of them, all the lights in the eyes he snuffed the life out of. All of the stuttering last breaths he stole, all of the screams he silenced.

A lot of his memories are like being the last person in Chinese Whispers, but not this one.

He knows exactly how he kills the Starks.

That doesn't mean he wants to relive it.

_“You will leave nothing but bodies in your wake.”_

Bucky wants to look away from this recording more than he wanted to look away from the ones of himself being tortured.

But he makes himself watch, doesn't avert his gaze, although his vision starts to blur as he sees himself dragging Howard back towards the car.

When it's over and the noise has faded, he blinks rapidly to rid his eyes of any lingering moisture.

He knows enough about technology – has been taught enough about computers – to know how to wipe this file.

Stark's kid doesn't need to see this. Surely he'd be saving him from more pain.

Bucky has always been an excellent liar, but he knows when he's lying to himself. He wants to destroy this so that no one ever finds out, so that the only people who know are dead. So that he's the only one who'll be able to judge himself for the terrible act. The eyes he sees in the mirror already judge him anyway, what's one more death to

He also doesn't want to be hunted down for this crime on top of all the rest. The Starks were – are – powerful, wealthy and influential, and he definitely doesn't need any more enemies.

Bucky is practising self-preservation for the first time in his life, and it feels terrible – but it doesn't make him want to live any less.

Does Tony Stark deserve to know what happened to his parents?

Probably.

That doesn't stop Bucky from erasing every trace of the footage from existence and destroying the very circuits that made it possible for him to watch it, until nothing can ever be salvaged from the remains.

At least he knows it wasn't part of the information leaked from S.H.I.E.L.D. With any luck, the world at large will never know.

Not that Bucky has much faith in luck, but he'll take his breaks where he can find them.

With that taken care of, Bucky gives himself a moment to rest his head in his hands and breathe.

Here he is, sitting in a cramped, cluttered house in the dark. There is a dead man in the corner and Bucky is covered in blood and dirt and sweat.

And he doesn’t want to live like this anymore. He wants to be able to sleep without nightmares of the past repeating itself. It’s not only the same old faces that greet him in his dreams, but new ones as well. People who he walks by on the street during the day lie dead at his feet in his mind in the night.

Sometimes he craves orders, the serenity of handing over control, and it makes him feel sick to his stomach that he could even contemplate letting anybody use him as a weapon again.

Bucky sighs and stands, wincing at an injury at his side that he’d received earlier while subduing Vasily.

The pain isn't a relief, merely a... distraction. A welcome distraction.

It’s time to cover his tracks. Bucky knows how this part goes.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

Getting back into the U.S. was a lot more difficult than getting out, but he managed it.

As the Winter Soldier, he hadn’t had any possessions, no hidden secrets, no safety deposit boxes or bank accounts. But while travelling and searching for the Notebook, he’d picked up a few things along the way. Fake IDs, some tech, money. He can’t bring much weaponry with him though, sadly. But then maybe his idea of “not much” is slightly skewed.

Once he’s back on American soil, he’s one step closer to General Ross. One step closer to the Red Book.

He squats in drug dens, homeless shelters, abandoned buildings and the like, because the people there hardly notice him. They hardly notice anything.

He think he’s doing a good job of staying under the radar as he continues his reconnaissance and makes his way to a vast array of locations – places where he can gather information, places he’d like to see again. Places he’d like to see for maybe the first time – although he can never be fully sure that it is the first time.

So, he’s surprised to notice that someone is following him.

 _\---_ _добросердечный_ _\---_

He lets them catch up.

He turns around, gun in hand. The barrel of his glock is pressed between a pair of startlingly light blue eyes, before he recognises the face.

“Buck.”

That’s it, that’s all Steve says, but the effect his voice has on Bucky is instantaneous.

It’s an automatic reaction, a bodily habit, a reflex. He can't control it. His heart begins to beat harder in his chest, he can feel it raging against his sternum; his lips twitch upwards against his will; the organs in his abdomen, which seem to constantly be tying themselves in monkey's fists, loosen somewhat.

_Sixty seconds, they’ve agreed. That’s all they can have, here, where anyone might walk in._

_Just sixty seconds. They count it in their minds each time, as they keep their foreheads pressed together; or their hands touching where nobody can see; or as they lay next to each other, just existing in the same space, the same moment. He wants to seep into this place, wants to linger here forever on this floor, in this bed, on these cushions, in this tent, as he closes his eyes and listens to Steve’s uneven – no, it’s even now – breathing._

_Sixty seconds where just lets himself love Steve without feeling guilty, without feeling wrong, or worried, or scared. He relishes the warmth radiating from the body that houses the best person he’s ever known._

_Sixty seconds are never enough, and Bucky is never satisfied. He wants more. He always wants more._

_But the sixty seconds are up. They return to their lives._

_Always together, and yet so far apart._

Bucky gets the urge – for a passing, fleeting moment – to press down with his index finger, to release the bullet from its chamber. To end to the way those eyes seem to peer into his mind.

But bullets don’t put an end to dreams.

“You can’t run forever.”

_“I’m gonna run away. That makes people feel better, I hear.”_

_“Becky, running away from problems never helped anybody.”_

Bucky before the war was a man who hoped he wouldn't have to pull the trigger. The Winter Soldier knew he’d have to. Whoever he is now... he doesn't hope for much, but he _wants_ not to have to shoot anybody ever again.

He lowers the gun.

Steve closes his eyes, sighing in relief.

“Buck, I just wanted to find you.”

“So did I.”

It takes Steve a second to understand his meaning.

“And did you?”

“Sort of... Not sure if you’ll like what I found,” Bucky replies, a slight challenge in his voice. But there’s uncertainty there too.  

“How can you know unless you tell me?”

“Not sure that’s such a good idea.”

“How can you know if you don’t try?”

Bucky bites his lip, what little resolve he had wavering.

“You can't outrun your memories. Can't outrun yourself.”

A wet laugh escapes from Bucky’s throat. “I certainly can’t run from you. I never seem to get very far without you following me.”

“I thought you were supposed to follow me,” Steve points out, a slight smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.  

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore,” Bucky admits. It feels like a confession. Like he’s looking for absolution.  

Something inside says that confessing to other folks is more Steve’s thing.

“You’re not supposed to do anything. You don’t have to do anything. But, if you want to…”

“What?” Bucky prods, finally holstering his gun.  

“Well, Tony–”

Bucky snorts. “What, Stark’s kid?”

Something tugs at his insides uncomfortably at that. Maybe guilt. The feeling is too constant for a slight increase to break him.

He’s dealt with the self-loathing so far, he’s not letting it stop him now.

_When you’re going through hell, just keep going._

“Yeah. He had an idea, and for once I don’t think it’s a bad one.”

“That’s encouraging,” Bucky mutters, with no small amount of sarcasm.  

Steve rolls his eyes.

“How about you hear him out first, and then decide how you feel about it,” he suggests.

Bucky doesn’t let any of his nervous tics show as he ponders the proposition. The knowledge that Steve might recognise them makes him uncomfortable.

Steve stays utterly still and silent while Bucky weighs the pros and cons, trying to give him room to think and decide for himself.

“Alright,” Bucky says slowly. Steve can feel a “ _but”_ coming on. “But there are a few things I need to tell you before then. And I have somewhere I need to go first.”

Steve nods agreeably.

“You can’t come with me,” Bucky says, voice brooking no argument.

Steve opens his mouth – probably to argue anyway – but reconsiders and closes it again, nodding his acquiescence once more.   

“You can’t follow me,” Bucky stipulates. “Promise.”

Steve glances downwards briefly, before his gaze flickers back up to meet Bucky’s.

“I won’t follow you, I swear.”

Bucky believes him.

Over the next twenty minutes, he explains everything he knows about the Red Book and the trigger words to Steve, who maintains that it can all be worked into whatever plan Stark Junior has for him.

He doesn’t react much to what Bucky thinks has been put in his mind. Judging by his total lack of a reaction, other than a slight pursing of his lips, Bucky thinks he’s trying to be considerate. Steve keeps his emotions on the topic to himself, and Bucky is glad of it.

_Their parted lips are pressed together and they are simply sharing the air between them. He’s never felt so euphoric and yet so at peace in his life._

Bucky almost doesn’t want to leave, but there’s somewhere else he has to be. Steve can wait. For now.

Before they part ways, they arrange a time and a place at which they will meet in five days’ time.

But for the time being, he has another location in mind. His life is going to be in even more danger than it was before - which is really saying something - and if anything happens to him, there’s one place he’d regret not going more than any other.

Now he just has to figure out how to get there.

He hates trains. They’re too dangerous. Too many security cameras at terminals, the journey is too organised, too structured, too regimented. It would be too easy to spot him, find him, subdue him and capture him.

He can’t go anywhere where there’s security or where he would be required to go through a metal detector or subjected to a pat down. So, that’s aeroplanes right out the window.

Stealing a car would probably be fine, but if it’s reported as stolen then police will be looking for the license plate number, and he doesn’t have any false ones at the moment. He’d have to keep stealing new cars, which he _could_ do, but there’s a high chance he’ll get caught if he does it multiple times. If he gets pulled over, he doesn’t have a driver’s license, either, so that’s a problem.

So, he can either rent a car – which would be damn expensive and probably require ID, which might lead to more complications – or… he can get a bus.

Which is how he finds himself languishing at a bus-top as he waits in the noon-day heat for the damn thing to roll up and take him away from this godforsaken city.

The bus driver is rude and abrupt when he sells Bucky a ticket and it is more like how Bucky was used to being treated before.

He finds that he doesn’t miss it. Nor does he enjoy the memories of the treatment he has suffered at the hands of others.

But there are some memories he longs to revisit.

Some _one_ he longs to visit.

As he takes a seat near the back and sets his bag at his feet, he closes his eyes, and lets them wash over him.  

_Lips upon his brow. Roughhousing._

_Dust motes dancing in the sunlit air of the kitchen._

_Getting_

_shoved_

_over._

_Arms wrapped_

_around_

_his chest._

_Kicks_

_beneath the_

_dinner table._

_Bruises_

_on_

_shins._

_Cards_

_between his_

_fingers._

_Dice_

_in_

_his palm._

_Cutlery clacking_

_against_

_ceramic plates._

_Thin blanket_

_tucked around_

_his shoulders._

_An orange_

_in his_

_stocking._

_Laughter._

_Screaming._

_Tears._

_Warmth._

_Love._

_Family._

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

He knows if there’s one thing he has to do, it’s see Rebecca. Even if it gets him captured, he wants to see his little sister. The need is so strong it burns in his veins.

He’s not sure if they’re watching his sister, waiting for him. Maybe, maybe not. He’s going to visit her anyway. Maybe he’ll visit his brothers later. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

He’s not even sure which “they” would be more likely to be using surveillance on this place. All of them probably.

But he doubts it would matter for much longer.  

_Golden Meadows Nursing Home._

It has a nice name, at least.

The exterior of the building is painted a cheery yellow.

A black man with close cropped hair and a bland but polite smile is at the reception desk inside.

“I’m here to see Rebecca Proctor,” Bucky says, trying not to move his arm too much. It makes so much fucking noise sometimes. Which was dumb on the part of his creators, since many of the missions he was sent on required stealth.

But now was not the time to be thinking about the questionable choices of his former masters (captors, torturers).

“Are you family? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

“Yeah. This is my first time seeing her in a while,” Bucky replies, which isn’t a lie.

If the man disapproves of this, he doesn’t let it show. _Probably used to people not visiting their relations._ The thought makes him sad.

“Name and ID please,” the attendant requests.

Bucky obliges.

“Thank you,” the attendant says, handing him back his forged driver’s licence. “Her eyesight isn’t great, and sometimes she forgets things, so she might not recognise you.”

He can barely recognise himself.

“That’s fine. I’d just like to see her.”

“Alright, then. Just sign in, and I’ll take you to her.”

They arrive at a door marked “ _Day Room_ ” and the attendant stops. There are a smattering of elderly people seated around the room. Some staring into nothingness, some watching TV. One woman is knitting.

But it’s a woman sitting by the window, book in hand, who catches his eye.

_\--- возвращение на родину ---_

“I’ll leave you two to it,” the attendant murmurs, but Bucky barely hears him and pays him no mind as he makes his way to his sister.

He stands and stares for and interminable length of time, taking everything in and locking the moment in his mind to look back on when the nightmares knock on his door.

She smells like dead flowers and dust, her is the colour of winter snow and there’s a gold band on her left ring finger, but that necklace and those misty, morning-sky eyes are familiar.

After a while, he sits on the cushioned chair beside her, content to bask in her presence until she notices him.

“Bucky,” she whispers when she catches sight of him, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. She lifts her hand to touch his cheek, as if she’s scared that he’s a mirage. “Oh, my, I’m starting to lose it.”

“Becky,” he replies hoarsely.

“I don’t understand. What– How? I thought you– Is this a dream? Or am I hallucinating? If I am, that’s okay. I like this dream.” Her shoulders curl in and she wipes at the tears that are falling down her face, hand shaking.

Bucky shuffles forwards a little bit, unsure of what he should do. “It’s not a dream. I’m real. But there’s a lot I don’t remember.”

Becky pauses for a moment, staring at him, overwhelmed, before taking a deep shaky breath. “Sometimes I have the same problem. Follow me. I have just the thing.”

She takes his right hand and leads him through the sun-laden halls, glancing back at him as if to make sure that he’s still there. They come to a stop at a room with her name on the door. It’s a white sign and the black cursive letters loop across it to spell out her new name. Not new to her (obviously), but definitely new to him. He feels a pang of loss – he hadn’t gotten to be at her wedding.

Or sixty-odd years of her birthday.

Once inside, she drops his hand and makes her way to an eggshell blue cupboard in the corner, from which she fetches a cardboard box that she brings over to the bed.

“Come sit,” she orders, placing the large box on her lap and patting the bedspread beside her.

When he sits, Rebecca just looks at him for a few seconds, as if she’s trying to memorise his features and imprint them indelibly into her mind. She begins to tear up again.

“I never meant to make you cry,” Bucky murmurs, tugging at the cuff of his sleeve falling over his metal hand.

“I cried when you left, I cried when you didn’t come back. Let me shed a few tears now that you’re here again,” she chides.

Bucky swallows, shifting uncomfortably on the comforter.

“We already had most of your things at home, but we got a bunch of Steve’s stuff from Arnie after they said Steve had gone down with that plane. He said he knew Steve would have wanted us to have them. And he’d said so in his will, so there wasn’t much the government could do to get their hands on all of it, so we got to keep it. Some things I burned. Didn’t want other folks getting at your private business when I passed away. I’m sorry for that. Maybe you’d have wanted to see them, but…” she trailed off, sniffing slightly.

“It’s okay Becky, you had no way of knowing,” Bucky murmurs, trying for a reassuring tone, but falling a bit flat.

“I still don’t know. I don’t understand how you’re here. If you really are here.”

Bucky doesn’t know how to reassure her that he is in fact real, when he sometimes doubts it himself.

“People were always bothering me at the time – all of us really – for interviews, and information, and looking for your things. Sometimes folks still do. But, well, I didn’t want to talk about it at the time, as you can imagine.” She begins to tear up and he grabs her hand reflexively. He’s not too sure about this whole “non-violent human interactions” thing, but he’s willing to give it a try.

“Sorry, don’t mind me. I’m just so glad–” she sniffs and gathers herself for a moment, before speaking again. “Well, all of your things – and Steve’s too – went to our family. We were keeping most of it at our place anyway, what with you both being away and everything. I haven’t shown most of these things to anyone,” she says, patting the plain brown cardboard absentmindedly.

When he tentatively lifts the lid off of the box, Dum Dum’s letter is the first thing he sees.

  


 

_Damn it, Dum Dum._

Bucky licks his lips and blinks five times in quick succession. He doesn’t know when the last time he cried was, but he’s pretty certain that the answer as to when the next time will be is _“pretty damn soon.”_

“Yeah, Ma had about that same look when she read it,” Becky sighs.

“How’d they die?”

“Who?”

“Ma. Timmy. Jack.”

“You don’t…?”

Bucky shakes his head.

“I saw ‘deceased’ and stopped. I– I didn’t–”

 _I didn’t want to know when I couldn’t grieve, could barely remember them_ , he doesn’t say. Can’t say.

“Well… Timmy died of cancer. That was tough. Ma went real quick, though, in her sleep. And Timmy, Timmy was in a car accident. But they had good lives. Pretty long ones, too.”

He remembers his mother, singing as she swept the sitting room.

_“I’m wild about that thing!”_

_“Ma! Stop! You’re embarrassing!”_

But she had never listened, and he can still remember that damn song.

Duty. Duty, duty, duty.

_I was just following orders._

_I tried my best._

_It wasn't my fault._

_I was just trying to do the right thing._

_I did my duty._

_I was just doing my job._

What did it matter in the end?

No harm, no foul.

But Bucky had inflicted plenty of harm; and it had all been foul.

They sat in silence for a few moments, and Bucky let the deaths sink in. He was steeped in death as it was, but it was always a hard thing for his mind to grasp at first.

When he gently placed the letter to the side, Becca took it as tacit permission to continue.

“They demanded we give them some things, though. Military men showed up and told us to hand them over. Of course ma was scared out of her wits, and Jack was nervous, too, but he insisted that we would only give them what they needed to have. So, they asked for your enlistment papers and drafting letter and told us they were going to change your birth cert, and made us sign some non-disclosure forms, but I doubt they’re going to arrest me at this age – especially not for telling _you_. Jack and Ma pretended they didn’t know what they were talking about for the draft letter, acted like we thought you’d signed up – which we did, until we’d been given your things. You were certainly an excellent liar – and that was it. They left.”

“Drafting letter?” Bucky asked, frowning in confusion.

“Well, sure. Here, look.” She rummages through the box, hands sifting through the sheaves of paper, before she pulls one out to hand to him.

Good to know that there had never really been a Bucky Barnes who wanted to kill anyone.

Unfortunate, then, that he’s so damn good at it.

Rebecca pauses, seeming to finally take in his state of dress – or, rather, dishevelment.

“How exactly have you been paying your way while you’re on the lam?” she asks suspiciously.

Bucky freezes. He’s a good liar, he knows he is damn it, but what could he possibly say to that piercing, dark brown glare that won’t get him scolded within an inch of his life?

When he doesn’t answer, Rebecca sighs.

“Alright, fine, don’t tell me – but if you robbed someone, you’d better pay those folks back.”

Bucky thinks about the fact that he’d cut up the ID card of the people he’d stolen from, and then remembers that he wrote down their names in his journal.

“Okay,” he concedes.

“You know… You could just get Steve to be your Daddy,” she teases. “I bet he’d buy you anything you liked.”

“Rebecca!” he admonishes, scandalised.  

“What? You know he would, don’t deny it.”

The only response Bucky can give to this is an indignant, high-pitched noise.

“Although, now they call them Sugar Daddies,” she muses to herself, feeling great schadenfreude at how offended his sensibilities were.

“I guess instead, you can use your own money to get by,” she allows.

“I don’t have any money of my own,” he sighs.

“Sure you do. I do, anyway, so you can have some of that.”

“Beck, this conversation is just confusing me more and more,” he says, brow furrowing in confusion.

“Did you really think our family didn’t make any money from the royalties on your… just about everything? People were clogging up our mailbox for years, and we got donation after donation, then there was the money the army gave us. We even had Steve’s, too, until he came back. We never did much with it, thankfully, so he has most of the money his name earned to himself, now. Although, I’m sure he probably gave most of it to charity.”

Bucky just looks at her, askance. So she shakes her head, pats his hand and heaves herself off of the bed.

“I’ll give you a credit card, explain how to use it. You could do with a haircut.”

“I don’t want a haircut,” he protests.

Becky raises her eyebrow at him.

“It’s a disguise. So people won’t recognise me,” he defends feebly.

“Uh-huh, ’cause you look nothing like that man on the news with the metal arm,” she chides, tapping his exposed left fingers which he had taken out of his pocket.

_\--- Один ---_

Bucky clears his throat, looking self-conscious as he awkwardly stuffs his hand back in his pocket.

“You should probably pull a Michael Jackson,” she informs him.

“A who?” Bucky frowns in confusion.

“Google him. And buy a glove. And a hair tie. In fact, you can have one of mine.”

“Google is great, but terrifying,” Bucky sighs.

“That it is,” Becky agrees, handing him a small, colourful, plastic… card?

“There, now you can go to an ATM and take out money. Just type in my birthday – month, day, last two digits of the year – and pick an amount, and it’ll give it to you.”

“Becky, I can’t take your money.”

“It’s not my money, you goose. It’s yours. Unless you end up spending more than a few million, in which case you’re straying into my cash,” she jokes.

“And here don’t forget the hair tie,” she adds, placing a purple hair band in his open palm.

He stares at it for a moment.

“Did I used to do your hair?” he asks, frowning at the familiarity of it between his fingers as he reaches up to pull his own matted locks back.

“Whenever Ma was too busy. You even used to plait and braid it for me,” she informs him with a smile, before turning back to her lap, all business and no-nonsense, just as she’d always been.

Just as he’s remembering she always was.

“Let’s get back to the box, shall we? There are a few more interesting things in here.”

 [ … ](https://cap-chronism.dreamwidth.org/6115.html) 

 [ ... ](http://eatingcroutons.tumblr.com/post/92129921136/chronically-ill-steve-rogers) 

“This kid was as sick as a dog,” Bucky mutters.

“Well, some of it’s exaggerated, and a few things are plain old untrue. But, yes. He was a fairly ill fella. Which is why he had a Will, really. And that’s why I have some of his things.”

 

 

“Didn’t he come to get his things, these papers, when he came back?” Bucky asked, flesh fingers tracing the lines and curls on the worn paper.

“Aw, hun, I think it just about broke his heart when he came to visit me, he just… he told me to keep them. To keep everything, really, ’cept for a couple of pictures. He’s come to visit me a few times actually, which is awful nice of him, considering how busy he is, and how much it seems to hurt him. I expect he’ll be visiting soon to ask if I’ve seen you anywhere.”

“Oh.”

“Have you talked to him at all?” Becca asks, her voice taking on a slightly disapproving tone as she frowns at him.  

“Yeah,” he replies defensively, fingers curling around the edge of the box on his lap.

She hums, eying him carefully. “Good. And what about Mattie?”

Bucky shifts uncomfortably at the mention of their younger sibling.

“What do you suppose I should tell him, Buck?”

“That I’m visiting him next?” His shoulders move closer to his ears with each word. “Just not for a little while yet,” he adds hastily.  

Becky levels him with a stern look. He’s guessing that this is her “ _parental guilt_ ” or even “ _grandparental guilt_ ” look, and the thought sends an ache through his chest.

But “we’ll see,” is all she says.

Bucky swallows and nods, feeling like he’s just dodged a bullet – and he really does know what that feels like. “Yes, ma’am.” She is, after all, his elder now. Sort of. When she side-eyes him, he maintains as innocent of a look as a former assassin can.

Becky simply clucks her tongue and rolls her eyes. “Less of that cheek, James Buchanan.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he repeats, tongue darting out slightly at the corner of his lip. Not that he’s sticking his sticking his tongue out at her. That would be childish. And rude.

He directs his attention back to the Will.

_There sits the picture in his mind, of Steve on Ash Wednesday with black gunk smeared across the pallid skin of his forehead. Of Steve kept getting the last rites the... three times he needed them._

_But he always pulled through, and Bucky felt like sobbing with relief every time._

“Who were all those people anyway? Who’s Arnold?” he asks, pointing at the list of executors and witnesses.

“Arnie. Arnie Roth. He and Steve lived in the same apartment. They were good friends back then. And he and his partner became close family friends, they’re in a lot of the photos in that album over there,” she adds, pointing to her a blue book sitting up on her shelf

Longing strikes him, right in the chest.

“A photo album? Can I see?”

“Not today. We’re almost out of time for visiting hours,” she says, tilting her head towards the window, where he can see that the evening is stretching thin, ready to snap into night-time.

Upon seeing the disappointment in his features, Becca pats his hand consolingly.

“Next time. Don’t worry, that book isn’t going anywhere,” she assured him. “Besides, there’s another book in here, with lots of pictures, that I think you might like to look at, too.”

She rifles through the box for a minute, and then picks up and holds out a hardback copybook to him.

He starts at the back of the book and flips the pages towards ’til he gets closer to the middle. Bucky traces the shading with his eyes and his fingertips, lingering on images of tanks and running across the harsh lines of weapons.

From what he can tell, it contains mostly drawings of the war.

But there’s a sketch near the start of some faces that he recognises, men laying around a campsite, smoking and eating and laughing. The Howling Commandos.

He remembers this one, can recall looking over someone's shoulder and watching as the pencil made its way across the page. Steve. It was probably Steve's shoulder, considering that his signature was at the bottom right hand corner of the page.

The next one he doesn’t recognise. A dancing monkey? A circus monkey? He has no idea what it’s supposed to be or why it’s dressed as Captain America.

But when he thinks back on the videos of a Star Spangled Steve, he thinks he might understand.

[ ...](https://historicallyaccuratesteve.tumblr.com/post/109231371791/i-should-be-working-but-instead-i-am-thinking) 

“What’s this?” Bucky asks, pointing at a sketch of a room of some sort. There is a bath in it that might have been a table. Or both.

“That’d be Steve and Arnie’s apartment. He used to share it with his ma before,” she pauses to purse her lips, “well, before she passed away.”

“What’d she die of?”

“TB,” Becca replies, sadness clear in the hush of her voice.

_Coughing. That's what he hears when he thinks of Sarah Rogers. Coughs and smiles. Each doled out liberally, although the former not willingly._

_Blood on the back of someone's hand._

_The smell of sickness._ _A hospital, he thinks?_

_Hair just like Steve's, but different eyes. More grey than blue. And kind, always kind. A hand ruffling his hair. A second mother._

_Singing. He can hear that too._

_Steve is sick again and Mrs Rogers is humming to herself, face anxious as she frets around his bed. Bucky knows this song._

_“Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say,_

_Oh, hard times, come again no more.”_

_And strong. He remembers that she was strong. Sarah Rogers was probably the bravest person he ever met. She was never afraid to stand up for herself, or to speak up for herself, and she didn’t put up with anybody else’s bull. If a bunch of fellas hollered at her as she walked by, she’d turn around and chew them out._

_But sometimes she’d seemed so delicate. Fragile. Thin wrists and pale skin, just like Steve._

_He supposes that you’re only as weak and as helpless as other people make you feel. And Mrs Rogers had never let herself be made to feel helpless._

_“My ma said you should never just stay down so that they'll stop. You_ always _stand up.”_

Getting beat up doesn’t mean you’re beaten.

That explained where Steve got his stubborn streak.

And his bravery.

Bucky can’t say that he recalls much of anyone called Arnold, but the apartment reminds him of so many other things. Evenings spent annoying Steve, or in companionable silence. Memories when they were together seem as if they happened in sunlight - even if he knows they happened after dusk.

_“Bucky, turn that racket off. I can’t listen to that song for the hundredth time right now, it’s giving me a headache.”_

_Bucky gasps in horror._

_“How dare you disrespect Miss Lee Morse. She is the cat’s pyjamas! She is an angel! And what would you know anyway – you’re tone deaf! You couldn’t carry a tune if you tried!”_

That argument is so real, it's one of the few memories he can wrap his arms around. It started with yelling, but ended with both of them laughing so hard they cried.

They argued much more than that, of course.

_“Come on, get your glad rags on, we’re goin’ out.”_

_“Bucky, no. I’m too tired,” Steve protests._

_“You always say that,” Bucky complains, crossing his arms._

_“Because it’s always true.”_

No wonder Steve didn’t wanna go out dancing, since he was so bad at it, Bucky mused. He could still picture Steve’s sour face, refusing to look away from whatever he was doing - drawing, cooking, cleaning, reading - as if it’d help him convince Bucky to leave him alone.

Never worked.

_There was a mouse that lived in Steve’s apartment. Probably more than one, but only one that Steve named._

_“You– You named it? Of course you did,” Bucky laughs in disbelief. “As poor as a church mouse. There’s a joke in there somewhere, but damn if I can find it.”_

Becca continues to look through the sheafs of paper, heedless of the fact that Bucky has been zoning in and out of what she’s talking about.

“...there are some police release papers in here as well, but there’s no point in looking at them,” Becca says, waving her hands dismissively.

“Woah, police? Who got arrested?” Bucky asked, surprised that there’d been trouble with the law in his life even before being the WInter Soldier.

His sister gives him a deeply judgemental look.

“Both of you twits, who else? I never met a pair who got in more fights than you two,” Becca says, rolling her eyes.

“Who were we fighting? Each other?”

“Hmph. Not usually. But it seemed you got into brawls with just about everybody else,” she mutters, returning to her search.

Bucky frowned. That much fighting seemed like an awful lot of effort.

“Why?”

“Chivalry, you always insisted. But ma called it stupidity.”

_“Oh, dry up. Go chase yourself. Go on, beat it!”_

Bucky snorts. He’ll have to bear that in mind.

Bucky decides he’s had enough of the box for a moment.

“Was I some sort of Casanova? I read one of my biographies and the writer seemed to think so.”

“Oh, no, no, no. They got that part wrong. Terribly wrong. No idea why anyone thought you were a Lothario, you were actually quite the gentleman. Usually.”

Bucky snorts.

“That qualifier says a lot,” he points out, but his sister merely huffs and refuses to expand on the topic.

“So, did I really drop out of High School to ‘help support my family’, or was that just bushwash?”

“That one, they got right. Around the time Daddy died, things were starting to get real bad for everyone. The Depression,” she sighs, sorrow etched into her aged features. “Ma always said it was such a pity, ’cause you were so good in school.”

He actually remembers doing schoolwork. Which is... annoying.

It irks him. He finds it irksome.  

He’d rather that space be taken up by other, more useful memories.

Or even just more interesting ones.

Then again, he’d take nightmares about the dullness of an exam over dreams of murder any day.

Or night, as the case may be.

Besides, he also has vague recollections of Steve sitting next to him in class, doodling tiny comics into the corners of any sheet of paper or cardboard he could get his hands on. A cat named Fabio who made pizzas, or caricatures of their neighbours. They’d always made Bucky laugh.

No wonder they got into so much trouble.

Seems like Steven Grant Rogers brought trouble right along with him, wherever he went.

“What was my favourite colour? My favourite book? Favourite food? Favourite movie?”

“I… Hm. I don’t think you had a favourite colour… Your favourite book was probably _A Brave New World_ . You’re favourite food was always strawberry ice-cream, you got it whenever you had cash to spare. Couldn’t get enough of the stuff. But you'd eat anything sweet, really. Candy, chocolate - you always had a stash somewhere. And you had a few favourite movies. Let me see... there was _Frankenstein_ and _King Kong_ . Oh, and definitely _Flash Gordon_. You loved anything to do with the future,” she sniffs, tearing up again, and damn it, Bucky can feel the liquid welling up in his own.

“Then at least I got to see it,” he murmurs weakly, trying to comfort her even as he looks away.

_“Mm, everything’s copacetic.”_

_“Bucky, are you drunk?!”_

_“Nooo,” Bucky denies, but even he can tell that it’s slurred._

_“You are! You’re totally sloshed!”_

_“Sh!”_

_Bucky’s hushing is probably louder than Steve’s admonishments, but the alcohol is muddling his mind too much for him to realise this._

_“How much did you drink while I was gone? C’mon, I’m gonna take you home. Let’s go,” Steve sighs, but doesn’t seem too torn up about it._

_The world tilts as Bucky stands. The sensation of a warm body supporting his own. From a smoky room, to an open air night._

_“You’re a funny one, you know that?” Bucky asks him, laughing to himself. There was a reason they called it giggle juice._

_“Buck, you always tell me that my jokes aren’t as good as I think they are,” Steve sighs._

_“That’s only when it’s me you’re making fun of. Or when you’re trying to be funny on purpose, but not sarcastically. You’re funny as all hell by accident. It’s a talent.”_

_“Sure it is,” Steve drawls, his voice rife with sarcasm._

_“Hey! Don’t you take that tone with me! I am your elder! You should be bowing in my presence. You should be kissing my feet!” the older boy protests._

_“Bucky, I wouldn’t get near your stinky feet if you paid–”_

_The intoxicated brunette stops dead still in the middle of the street, and turned to face Steve, eyes wide._

_“Steve, I just had the best idea ever,” he breathes._

_“What? If it has anything to do with your feet, I’m gonna say no,” Steve frowns._

_“We should get ice-cream! The strawberry flavoured kind, my favourite!”_

_“Bucky, no. It’s the middle of the night. Where the heck are we gonna get ice-cream?”_

_Bucky pouts._

_“But I want it,” he insists sullenly._

_Steve sighs and rubs a hand over his jaw. Bucky knows that gesture. That’s a sign of a Steve who’s working out a compromise._

_“Okay, look, if I promise that we’ll go get ice-cream tomorrow, will you let me take you home now?” the blonde offers._

_Bucky gasps mock-dramatically._

_“Why, Steve! Take me home? How forward of you, to proposition me without so much as a ‘by your leave’!”_

_Steve groans._

_“Buck, stop being ridiculous and start walking.”_

_“Fine,” Bucky sniffs. “You’re no fun.”_

“Young man, are you listening to me?”

Becky snorts when Bucky jumps, jolted out of the memory.

“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself,” she laughs.

“Very funny,” Bucky grumps, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, it was,” Becky replies cheerfully, but then she turns slightly more serious. “You drifted off there by yourself for a moment. You okay?”

“Yeah, fine, sorry.”

She looks doubtful, so he switches topics.

“What’s next?”

“Did they… change my birthday?”

“ _Oh_.” His sister winces slightly. “Yes.”

“What? Why?” he demands, trying not to crumple the page in his hand.

“To make you younger than Steve, I think? I suppose they were grateful that I was three years younger than you. One less thing to change. They went a bit crazy with the propaganda, you know,” Becca explains, waving her hand in the air and shrugging lightly.

“I can see that,” he replies faintly, slightly stunned. How was he supposed to know what to believe if even historical records and “facts” were suspect?  

“That’s almost everything. Just one last thing left. Is there anything here that you want to take with you?”

“You?” he jokes, except that he’s not really joking at all.

“Oh, hush you,” she smiles sadly.

“Now. Before I show this one last thing, you promise me that you’ll look after of yourself,” Becca stipulates, taking a pink, faded book out of the box, and holding it close.

“I know how to look out for myself, it’s okay, you don’t have to worry,” Bucky assures her.

“It’s not okay. You’re not okay, and I will always worry. There is a world of difference between looking out for yourself and looking after yourself. I want you to take care of yourself. Take _good_ care of yourself.”

Bucky’s shoulders slump a little at that. He feels both relieved and guilty.

“I ever tell you you’re the best little sister in the world?”  

“Maybe a million times. Never quite believed you, though,” she teases, tone wistful at the bittersweet moment.

When she smiles like that, he can almost see two of her. A little girl and old woman, with the same warm smile and eyes the colour of coffee.

“Guess I’ll just have to keep telling you, then.”

 _"_ _You’re the best little sister ever.”_

_"And you’re the best big brother I’ve ever had.”_

_“There’s hardly much competition._

_I’m the only big brother you’ve ever had.”_

 _"_ _And the only big brother I’ll ever need.”_

_“Aw, thanks.”_

_“Yeah. One of you is more than enough.”_

_“Hey!”_

A nurse appears at the door, and it speaks to how distracted Bucky is that he only noticed her approach 40 seconds before she arrived.

Her smile is kind, her glasses and jumper are both crooked, and her curly mop of hair is almost as much of a mess as the inside of his head.

He decides not to second guess her friendly demeanour. Just this once.

“Visiting hours are over, I’m afraid. Wouldn’t want to tire Mrs Proctor out.”

“Of course not,” Bucky agrees.

Becca touches his hand gently to get his attention.

“Visit me?”

“Of course.”

He leans down to press a kiss against her papery cheek.

She presses the pink book into his hands in return.

_Becky became friends with Steve first, Bucky’s almost sure of that. And she never let him forget it._

_She was angry with him for stealing her friend. He can hear her screaming those words, furious. Can nearly see it too, but not… not quite._

_“Where were you?” Bucky asks his little sister as soon as she enters the hall, arms crossed and lips pursed in mock-disapproval._

_“Mind your own beeswax,” Becca says, dashing up the stairs. Of course her annoying older brother follows her._

_“Not a beekeeper, no wax to mind,” Bucky retorts, sticking his foot in the gap between the door and the jamb._

_Becca lets out a frustrated growl, but it’s more adorable than intimidating._

_“What have you been up to lately? Why so secretive?” Bucky wheedles, raising his eyebrows at her suspiciously._

_“No reason,” Becca insists. Giving up on trying to shove the door closed, she lets him shoulder his way in._

_“Uh-huh. C’mon, tell me. You got a little friend or something? A_ boy _, maybe?” Bucky prods, squinting at her as if it will help him unearth all of her secrets. He’s twelve, it’s practically his duty to annoy his eight year old sister._

_“So what if I do?” she retorts._

_“Ah-hah! I knew it! It’s that little blonde fella from before, isn’t it? I knew you were sweet on him!” Bucky teases, patting Becca on the head, a mixture of affectionate and condescending._

_He remembers the blonde kid. Some dumb nitwit had been making Becca cry at school and before Bucky even had the chance to do anything about it_ _–_ _before he’d even noticed that it was happening_ _–_ _a pale little streak of righteous fury had gone over and shoved the guy who’d been bothering his sister. By the time Bucky got there, all he could do was pull the bully off of the smaller fella._ Steve _, Bucky thinks he was called. The kid was obviously completely crackers._

_“Shut it! It’s nothing to do with you!” Becca cries._

_“Sure it is. I’m your big brother. I’m coming with you next time, make sure he’s treating you right.”_

_“No! That’s a terrible idea!” Becca protests._

_“Nonsense, it’s a wonderful idea.”_

_In fact, the second time Bucky meets Steve, he begins to think it’s the best idea he’s ever had._

 

_(“I’m gonna run away. That makes people feel better, I hear.”)_

_(“Becky, running away from problems never helped anybody.”)_

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

_Tony claps his hands together to get everyone to pay attention to him, seemingly partly because he always wants everyone to pay attention to him, partly because he's about to launch into a speech._

_“Ladies and gents, we are gathered here today to help an emo – that's still a thing, isn't it, Pepper? – brainwashed assassin–”_

_“Formerly brainwashed,” Bucky argues._

_“Objection sustained,” Tony grants graciously. Bucky merely rolls his eyes._

_People appear to do that alot around Tony Stark._

_“Regardless of what he is or is not – because, apparently no one cares, the past is the past, let's let bygones be bygones – we are going to help him steal something from the United States Government. Or, at least, someone who works for them.”_

_“I think it's General Thaddeus Ross who has it,” Bucky explains quietly._

_Tony helpfully draws up a picture of the man by waving his hand in mid air, which Bucky is baffled by but chooses to ignore. People also seem to do that a lot with Stark._

_"Who has what?" Sam interjects._

_"I've been informed that that is need to know information, and if they've decided that I don't need to know then you don't need to know either, Wilson," Tony asserts, shaking a finger at him._

_His run-on sentences are beginning to give Bucky a headache._

_“Now, we need a distraction, something that'll draw the police away. Bruce is answering my calls but refuses to go anywhere near this one,” Tony rambles, as per usual, pointing at Natasha and squinting at her slightly accusingly._

_“Are you saying you can't be distracting?” Sam asks, tone disbelieving._

_Tony pauses, which is a miracle in and of itself._

_“Good point.”_

 

* * *

 

He’d had the wrong Ross, damn it.

And now he’s bleeding out and trying to escape.

_“Death solves all problems – no man, no problem.”_

He wants to vanish from the world, everything would be easier if he didn't exist anymore.

He just wants it to be over.

He catches sight of the water running beneath the bridge and makes his way to the edge, clambering onto the railing.

_“And you're willing to die for that?”_

_“Yes,” Steve insists, stubborn as always._

_“Well, I'm not willing to let you.”_

_“What they're doing, it's wrong!”_

_“Yeah, so? When is something not wrong with the world? What are you going to do, fix everything? For the rest of your life?”_

_“That was the plan.”_

_“I can't be part of that plan.”_

_“Why? You always have been before.”_

_“And that went well,” Bucky points out._

_“Bucky, just because–”_

_“No! There is a fundamental flaw in your plan, Steve, and that is the fact that heroes never get to be happy. Never. Being a hero isn't a good plan.”_

_Steve let out defeated a sigh. “Then what do you want to do?”_

_“Let's look at my options, shall we? Not a whole lot of 'em. One; I can surrender myself to the custody of the state, be put under arrest, probably imprisoned. Best case scenario: I am offered the wonderful opportunity to switch sides and work for this fine nation, doing... pretty much the same thing I did for HYDRA. Worst case scenario: I'm put on trial and held responsible for all the criminal acts which I have carried out over the last several decades. Either I get life, or I get death. So, option one, not looking great._

_“Two; I can spend the rest of my life on the run–”_

_“If you're going somewhere, I'm going with you,” Steve interrupts._

_“You've never run away from anything in your life–” Bucky protests, and now they’re trying to talk over one another._

_“For once, it's not about a fight, it's about a life. One I could get to have with–”_

_“What happens when you–?”_

At least Bucky had gotten what he came for.

The notebook is tucked into his jacket and it will go down with him and be ruined by the water.

The Winter Soldier will die as the dye leaks from those trigger words.

An end at last.

 _\---_ _грузовой вагон_ _\---_

No man, no problem.

Pain flares in his right shoulder. A bullet ripping through his flesh.

Bucky jumps into the murky depths below.

 


	9. Chapter 9

_Steve sighs in defeat._

_“Then what do you want to do?”_

_“Let's look at my options, shall we? Not a whole lot of 'em. One; I can surrender myself to the custody of the state, be put under arrest, probably imprisoned. Best case scenario: I am offered the wonderful opportunity to switch sides and work for this fine nation, doing... pretty much the same thing I did for HYDRA. Worst case scenario: I'm put on trial and held responsible for all the criminal acts which I have carried out over the last several decades. Either I get life, or I get death. So, option one, not looking great._

_“Two; I can spend the rest of my life on the run–” Bucky continues to rant, but is cut off by Steve interjecting._

_“If you're going somewhere, I'm going with you.”_

_“You've never run away from anything in your life–” Bucky says dismissively._

_“For once, it's not about a fight, it's about a life. One I could get to have with–” Steve says, but doesn’t get to finish his point._

_“What happens when you–?”_

_Tony sees this as a good time to cut in, before the argument gets out of hand._

_“Uh, guys. I have a plan. It's a really good one actually. Excellent. Top-notch, high-quality stuff.”_

_Steve and Bucky look at each other._

_“Go on,” Steve says, waving a hand to invite Tony to continue._

_Tony opens with a question neither of them were expecting._

_“Your parents were Irish, right Steve?”_

_“Yeah...”_

_“So, why don't you and I get on one of my private jets and I will fly you over there to that tiny little mostly-peaceful country, to help you 'reconnect with your roots'? And if we so happen to acquire a stowaway, I certainly won't complain.”_

_“People will still be looking for the Winter Soldier. And the only scapegoat for that is me,” Bucky points out, crossing his arms._

_“Ah, but what is a goat when you push it off the mountain?” Tony asks, as if the answer will solve all their problems._

_“A... dead goat?” Bucky guesses._

_“Precisely.”_

 […](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QXCGnTy-v2M) 

“I FEEL GOOD!” jolts him from his sleep, and he curses as he tries to find and destroy the source of the noise.

He reads the name on the screen and squints, confused but annoyed.

“Steve, you are a dead man,” he mutters as he answers the phone.

“Are you up?”

“I am now, asshole.”

“Hey, it’s 10AM. Get out of bed, lazy-head. Besides, you’re the one who said you wanted to be woken up.”

“I did?” He tilts his head to the side, trying to remember, but it’s a little fuzzy.

“Yup.”

He thinks he remembers that, from… yesterday? But his mind is slightly sleep-addled.

“Oh. I did. I take it back.”

“One of those days, huh?” Steve asks, voice still sounding amiable.

“What days?”

“Read the note on your bedside table. I’ll be back in ten minutes,” is the only reply he gets.

“Uh, okay,” he agrees, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. He’s still half asleep and feeling more than a little confused.

When Steve hangs up, he blows out a breath, running his hand through his hair and then rolling off the bed and grabbing the note.

It says:

_In case you've forgotten._

  *     _Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You prefer Bucky._
  *     _You are safe._
  *     _You’re in Ireland._
  * _It is the 22_ _nd_ _of March in the year 2017._
  *     _You’re with Steve. He's probably jogging._
  *     _You have a memory journal. It's underneath this note._
  *     _Gun and knife can be found strapped to the bottom of the bed, this side. Don't use them unless you have to. Like I said, you're safe._
  *     _Go shower and have breakfast. Steve will be back soon. Also: he's bigger now._



Bucky picks up the journal and begins to read it as he heads for the kitchen, remembering more with every step.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because if Tony Stark can [come to Ireland](www.rte.ie/entertainment/2016/0116/760762-eoin-colfer-brings-marvels-iron-man-to-ireland/), Steve and Bucky totally can, too.


End file.
